FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D 

BEQUEATHED    BY  HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


/MS 


^^w^^^^^^^r^^^^^>rkas^a( 


THE    PROPERTY 
OF 


I     MRS.  W.  H.  BURR.     ( 


^\^^yjga^^^a^g^c^iyKK»g 


POEMS 


v 


:-  15  1933  ' 


x- 


m 


■   pi" 


BY    ALICE    CARY. 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR   AND    FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LV. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

ALICE    CARY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


£n  Unftts  Itfilitmt  dprismollt. 


My   DtAR   JRIEND  : 

It  is  not  to  avert  the  censures  of  so  judicious  a  critic  that  I  dedicate 
to  you  this  collection  of  my  poems.  You  were  the  first  to  praise  my  simple 
rhymes,  years  before  I  met  or  dreamed  of  meet'ng  you  ;  and  since  we  became 
personally  acquainted  you  have  always  been  ready  to  counsel  and  encourage 
me  in  those  literary  pursuits  to  which  I  was  led  by  the  natural  inclination 
of  my  mind,  and  which  at  too  early  an  age,  perhaps.  I  adopted  as  the  princi- 
pal means  of  hoped-for  usefulness  and  happiness.  I  have  been  pleaseu,  there- 
fore, with  the  thought,  that  in  such  an  inscription  as  this  I  might  express 
something  of  my  gratitude  to  you,  and  my  respect  for  you.  I  know,  in-deed, 
that  it  is  not  an  unusual  distinction  to  have  been  an  object  of  your  kindly 
interest  —  that  there  are  many  among  our  younger  authors  who  owe  much  lo 
your  wise  advice  and  generous  aid  —  .-o  that  if  all  who  are  in  this  way  your 
debtors  were  so  to  manifest  their  feelings,  you  would  be  wearied  with  such 
displays  of  their  consideration  ;  yet  this  is  the  only  manner  in  which  I  can 
render  you  that  homage  which  is  due  for  your  genius  and  worth,  especially 
from  me.  who  am  under  so  many  obligations  to  you  ;  and  I  feel  assured  that 
you  will  receive  my  oiferiug  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  it  conferred  on 
you  more  than  on  myself  a  desirable  honor. 

Of  the  character  of  these  Poems  I  have  little  to  say :  I  submit  them  to  the 
world's  judgment,  not  without  fears  that  the  favor  with  which  a -considerable 
number  of  them  have  been  received,  as  from  time  to  time  they  have  been 
separately  printed,  will  not  be  preserved  when  they  are  read  in  so  large  a  col- 
lection. It  may  be  a  woman's  weakness,  but  1  confess  that  I  could  never  karn 
to  b!ot  or  to  revise,  and  arter  any  effusion  of  a  moment  has  gone  from  my 
hand.-,  have  had  no  heart  to  look  at  it  with  the  cold  curiosity  of  a  critic. 
'•  Wuat  is  writ  is  writ,'"  I  have  been  content  to  say.  adding  with  a  just  sense 
of  it>  faults.  " Would  it  were  worthier,'' yet  rarely  or  never  feeling  in  the 
mood  to  destroy  and  recreate.  Nevertheless,  while  the  pieces  in  this  volume 
have,  for  the  most  part,  their  original  imperfections,  1  am  not  without  a  pleas- 
ing belief  that  time  and  pains  have  done  away  with  some  of  my  earlier 
and  that  they  will  still  enable  me  to  improve.  I  feel  very  sensibly 
that  I  have  not  redeemed  the  kind  prophecies  of  my  friends,  nor  fulfilled  the 
.lopes  I  have  had  and  i.ave  now  for  myself. 


IV  DEDICATION. 

Born  and  reared  in  the  midst  of  rural  occupations,  and  all  my  most  cher- 
ished memories  keeping  me  still  familiar  with  woods  and  fields,  1  have  drawn 
from  my  own  past  the  imagery  and  chief  accessories  of  my  j oeins,  which 
have  therefore  in  this  respect  a  certain  genuineness.  It  will  be  perceived 
that  I  have  not  often  attempted  new  rhythms,  but  have  been  content  in  some 
cases  to  set  my  thoughts  to  music  with  which  the  world  has  sweetly  rung 
for  ages. 

The  longest  of  these  poems  is  based  on  an  episode  in  Mr.  Trescott's  admira- 
ble work.  "The  Conquest  of  Mexico,"  and  is  composed  in  the  main  with 
fidelity  to  the  representations  of  Prescott,  Clavigero,  Lord  Kingsborough,  and 
the  few  other  authors  within  my  reach  who  have  written  of  Aztec  history  and 
civilization.  I  am  not  confident  that  I  have  always  correctly  understood  the 
proper  pronunciation  of  Aztec  names,  but  I  have  as  far  as  possible  avoided 
the  use  of  those  which  seemed  the  most  difficult.  To  the  objection  some- 
times urged  against  such  themes,  based  on  the  idea  that  poetry  has  to  do  only 
-with  a  high  cultivation,  accommodated  to  our  own  notions  of  taste  and  jus- 
tice, I  cannot  assent;  human  nature  is  nearly  the  same  in  all  conditions, 
and  in  every  condition  has  elements  of  beauty,  not  less  poetical  because  dis- 
played sometimes  amid  barbaric  splendors  and  savage  superstitions. 

I  will  not  dwell  further  upon  these  poems  —  the  written  cloud  and  sunshine 
of  so  much  of  my  life  —  but  respectfully  and  gratefully  dedicate  them  to  you, 
as  a  memorial  of  our  long  existing  friendship. 

New  York,  October,  l»54.  A.  C. 


CONTENTS 


Lyra 

In  Illness 

To  the  Night 

The  Minstrel 

Hyala 

Pictures  of  Memory 

Agatha  to  Harold 

Legend  of  Seville 

To  the  Winds 

Anemones 

Lost  Sight 

Paul 

To  the  Spirit  of  G 

The  Tryst 

Death's  Ferryman 

Jessie  Carrol 

Hyperion     . 

The  Convent 

The  Legend  of  St 

The  Daughter 

Annie  Clayville 

Yesternight 

W  inter 

Wood  Nymphs 

Helva 

OiTmBER 

The  New  Year 
The  Sugar  Ca:,:p 
Khyme  of  my  I'lay 
The  coming  of  Night 
Fire  Pictures 
The  Wood  Lily 


Mary's 


page. 

11 

15 
IS 
23 
27 
31 
35 
39 
41 
43 
58 
61 
68 
65 
67 
69 
79 
82 
Bb 
89 
92 


97 
102 
105 
107 
109 
115 
117 
119 
li'l 
123 


VI                                        c 

To  the  Spirit  of  Song 

A  Christmas  Story 

The  Deserted  Fylgia 

The  Haunted  House     . 

The  Murderess 

Content 

Of  One  Asleep 

Dissatisfied      .        . 

Dying  Song 

Lily  Lee 

To  the  Evening  Zephyr 

Miracles  .... 

Tokens 

To  the  Hopeful     . 

Going  to  sleep 

The  Dying  Mother 

The  Lullaby 

Alda         .... 

Glenly  Moor 

Rosemary  Hill 

My  Brother 

Nellie  Watching    . 

Rosalie 

Justified 

Isidore's  Dream 

Burns       .... 

The  Emigrants    . 

RiNALDO     .... 

Juliet  to  Romeo 

Of  Home 

My  Friend  . 

The  Handmaid 

Parting  and  Meeting 

A  Ruin    .... 

The  Foet    . 

Aspirations 

Changed 

Watching 

Weariness  .        .        .        . 

The  Betrayal 

Edith  to  Harold 

OS 

TE1 

f  T  S 

Pagb 

125 
127 
129 
131 

.  133 
13ft 

.  137 
139 

.  HI 
143 

.  145 
147 

.  149 
151 

.  153 
155 
157 

161 
1G3 
165 
167 
171 
174 
177 
179 
1S1 
183 
185 
•187 
189 
191 
193 
196 
199 
201 
203 
205 
207 
209 
211 

Parting  with  a  Poet 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Pagk 

The  Reclaiming  oi  the  Angel 215 

Adelyn 217 

Madela 219 

The  Broken  Household 221 

To  Mary 223 

Parting  Song 225 

The  Bridal  of  V\"o 227 

A  Dream  Untold 229 

The  Convict 232 

Sick  and  in  Prison 235 

Uld  Stories 237 

Visions  of  Light 239 

Longings 241 

The  Time  to  be 243 

Remorse 245 

Despair 247 

Respite 249 

Of  One  Dying 251 

May  Verses 253 

Wurtha 255 

The  Shepherdess 257 

Washing  the  Sheep 259 

George  Burroughs 261 

LcTHKB 263 

The  Evening  "Walk 565 

The  Last  Song 269 

Weariness    .        .        .         .        , 270 

Perversity 271 

"When  my  Love  and  I  lie  dead 272 

Hidden  Light 273 

Devotion ;  274 

Prophecy 275 

Light  of  Love 276 

A  Retrospect 277 

The  Homeless 278 

Kindness 278 

Enjoy 280 

April 281 

At  the  Grave 282 

Mulberry  Hill 285 

A  Rustic  Plaint          .                         286 

The  Spirit -Haunted 237 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Ulalie 289 

On  the  Picture  of  a  Magdalen 290 

Death  Song 291 

Young  Love 292 

Musings  by  Three  Graves 293 

The  Morning 297 

Awakening 298 

Times 298 

The  Prophecy    i 300 

Worship 80S 

Only  Two 308 

The  Orphan  Girl 303 

A  Norland  Ballad 805 

The  Mill  Maid 309 

The  Lover's  Vision 311 

Nobility 313 

Doomed 315 

The  Way 316 

Thisbe 317 

Safe 318 

Adeleid 319 

What  an  Angel  sadd 320 

My  Playmate 321 

The  Workers 322 

Looking  Back 323 

Hymn 324 

Leila 325 

Lights  of  Genius    ..*..»...  325 

The  Maiden  of  Tlascala 327 


POEM  S 


POEMS. 


LYRA:  A  LAMENT. 

Maidens,  whose  tresses  shine, 

Crowned  with  daffodil  and  eglantine, 

Or,  from  their  stringed  buds  of  brier  roses, 

Bright  as  the  vermeil  closes 

Of  April  twilights  after  sobbing  rains, 

Fall  down  in  rippled  skeins 

And  golden  tangles  low 

About  your  bosoms,  dainty  as  new  snow ; 

While  the  warm  shadows  blow  in  softest  gales 

Fair  hawthorn  flowers  and  cherry  blossoms  white 
Against  your  kirtles,  like  the  froth  from  pails 

O'er  brimmed  with  milk  at  night, 
When  lowing  heifers  bury  their  sleek  flanks 
In  win  rows  of  sweet  hay  or  clover  banks — 
Come  near  and  hear,  I  pray, 
My  plained  roundelay. 


12  LYRA. 

Where  creeping  vines  o'errun  the  sunny  leas, 
Sadly,  sweet  souls,  I  watch  your  shining  bands, 
Filling  with  stained  hands 

Your  leafy  cups  with  lush  red  strawberries ; 
Or  deep  in  murmurous  glooms, 
In  yellow  mosses  full  of  starry  blooms, 
Sunken  at  ease — each  busied  as  she  likes, 

Or  stripping  from  the  grass  the  beaded  dews, 
Or  picking  jagged  leaves  from  the  slim  spikes 

Of  tender  pinks — with  warbled  interfuse 
Of  poesy  divine, 

That  haply  long  ago 

Some  wretched  borderer  of  the  realm  of  wo 
Wrought  to  a  dulcet  line ; — 
If  in  your  lovely  years 

There  be  a  sorrow  that  may  touch  with  tears 
The  eyelids  piteously,  they  must  be  shed 
For  Lyra,  dead. 

The  mantle  of  the  May 

Was  blown  almost  within  the  summer's  reach, 
And  all  the  orchard  trees, 

Apple,  and  pear,  and  peach, 
Were  full  of  yellow  bees, 

Flown  from  their  hives  away. 
The  callow  dove  upon  the  dusty  beam 

Fluttered  its  little  wings  in  streaks  of  light, 

And  the  gray  swallow  twittered  full  in  sight ; 
Harmless  the  unyoked  team 

Browsed  from  the  budding  elms,  and  thrilling  lays 

Made  musical  prophecies  of  brighter  days  ; 


LYRA.  1 3 

And  all  went  jocundly.    I  could  but  say, 

Ah  !  well-a-day  ! — 

What  time  spring  thaws  the  wold, 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  come  up  sprouts  of  gold, 

And  green  and  ribby  blue,  that  after  hours 

Encrown  with  flowers ; 

Heavily  lies  my  heart 

From  all  delights  apart, 

Even  as  an  echo  hungry  for  the  wind, 

When  fail  the  silver-kissing  waves  to  unbind 

The  music  bedded  in  the  drowsy  strings 

Of  the  sea's  golden  shells — 
That,  sometimes,  with  their  honeyed  murmurings 

Fill  all  its  underswells  ; — 
For  o'er  the  sunshine  fell  a  shadow  wide 
When  Lyra  died. 

When  sober  Autumn,  with  his  mist-bound  brow«, 

Sits  drearily  beneath  the  fading  boughs, 

And  the  rain,  chilly  cold, 

Wrings  from  his  beard  of  gold, 

And  as  some  comfort  for  his  lonesome  hours, 

Hides  in  his  bosom  stalks  of  withered  flowers, 

I  think  about  what  leaves  are  drooping  round 

A  smoothly  shapen  mound, 

And  if  the  wild  wind  cries 

Where  Lyra  lie1-. 

■  shepherds  softly  blow 
Ditties  most  sad  and  low — 
Piping  on  hollow  reeds  to  your  pent  sheep — ■ 
Calm  be  my  Lyra's  sleep, 


14  lfra. 

Unvexed  with  dream  of  the  rough  briers  that  pull 

From  his  strayed  lambs  the  wool ! 

Oh,  star,  that  tremblest  dim 

Upon  the  welkin's  rim, 

Send  with  thy  milky  shadows  from  above 

Tidings  about  my  love ; 

If  that  some  envious  wave 

Made  his  untimely  grave, 

Or  if,  so  softening  half  my  wild  regrets, 

Some  coverlid  of  bluest  violets 

Was  softly  put  aside, 

What  time  he  died ! 

Nay,  come  not,  piteous  maids, 

Out  of  the  murmurous  shades ; 

But  keep  your  tresses  crowned  as  you  may 

With  eglantine  and  daffodillies  gay, 

And  with  the  dews  of  myrtles  wash  your  cheeks, 

When  flamy  streaks, 

Uprunning  the  gray  orient,  tell  of  morn — 

While  I,  forlorn, 

Pour  all  my  heart  in  tears  and  plaints,  instead, 

For  Lyra,  dead. 


IN  ILLNESS. 

No  harsh  complaint  nor  rude  unmannered  wo, 

Shall  jar  discordant  in  the  dulcet  flow 

Of  music,  raining  through  the  chestnut  wings 

Of  the  wild  plaining  dove, 
The  while  I  touch  my  lyre's  late  shattered  strings, 

Mourning  about  my  love. 

Now  in  the  field  of  sunset,  Twilight  gray, 

Sad  for  the  dying  day, 

With  wisps  of  shadows  binds  the  sheaves  of  gold, 

And  Night  comes  shepherding  his  starry  fold 

Along  the  shady  bottom  of  the  sky. 

Alas,  that  I 

Sunken  among  life's  faded  ruins  lie — 

My  senses  from  their  natural  uses  bound  ! 

What  thing  is  likest  to  my  wretched  plight  ? — 
A  barley  grain  cast  into  stony  ground, 

That  may  not  quicken  up  into  the  light. 

Erewhile  I  dreamed  about  the  hills  of  home 
Whereon  I  used  to  roam  ; 
Of  silver-leaved  larch, 
And  willows,  hung  with  tassels,  when  like  bells 
Tinkle  the  thawing  runners  brimming  swells  ; 

15 


16  IN     ILLNESS. 

And  softly  filling  in  the  front  of  March 
The  new  moon  lies, 

Watching  for  harebells,  and  the  buds  that  ease 
Heart's  lovelorn,  and  the  spotted  adder's  tongue, 
Dead  heaped  leaves  among — 
The  verdurous  season's  cloud  of  witnesses  ; 
Of  how  the  daisy  shines 

White,  i'  the  knotty  and  close-nibbled  grass ; 
Of  thickets  full  of  prickly  eglantines, 

And  the  slim  spice- wood  and  red  sassafras, 
Stealing  between  whose  boughs  the  twinkling  heats 
Suck  up  the  exhaled  sweets 
From  dew-embalmed  beds  of  primroses, 
That  all  unpressed  lie, 
Save  of  enamored  airs,  right  daintily, 

And  golden-ringed  bees ; 
Of  atmospheres  of  hymns, 

When  wings  go  beating  up  the  blue  sublime 
From  hedgerows  sweet  with  vermeil-sprouting  limbs, 

In  April's  showery  time, 
When  lilacs  come,  and  straggling  flag-flowers,  bright, 
As  any  summer  light 

Ere  yet  the  plowman's  steers 
Browse  through  the  meadows  from  the  traces  free, 
Or  steel-blue  swallows  twitter  merrily, 
With  slant  wings  shaving  close  the  level  ground, 
Where  with  his  new- washed  ewes  thick  huddled  round, 

The  careful  herdsman  plies  the  busy  shears. 
But  this  was  in  life's  May, 
Ere  Lyra  was  away  ; 


IN      ILLNESS.  17 

And  this  fond  seeming  now  no  longer  seems — 
Aching  and  drowsy  pains  keep  down  my  dreams ; — 

Even  as  a  dreary  wind 

Within  some  hollow,  black  with  poison  flowers, 

Swoons  into  silence,  dies  the  hope  that  lined 
My  lowly  chamber  with  illumined  wings. 

In  life's  enchanted  hours, 
When,  tender  oxlips  mixed  through  yellow  strings 
Of  mulleinstars,  with  myrtles  interfused, 
Pulled  out  of  pastures  green,  I  gaily  used 
To  braid  up  with  my  hair.     Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Haply  the  blue  eyes  of  another  May, 
Open  from  rosy  lids,  I  shall  not  see, 
For  the  white  shroud-folds.     If  it  thus  must  be, 
Oh,  friends  who  near  me  keep 
To  watch  or  weep, 

When  you  shall  see  the  coming  of  the  night 
Comfort  me  with  the  light 
Of  Lyra's  love, 
And  pray  the  saints  above 
To  pity  me,  if  it  be  sin  to  know 
Heaven  here  below. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

Midnight,  beneath  your  sky, 

Where  streaks  of  soft  blue  lie 

Between  the  starry  ranks 

Like  rivers  with  white  lilies  on  their  banks, 

Frown  not  that  I  am  come, 
A  little  while  to  stay 
From  the  broad  light  of  day. 

My  passion  shall  be  dumb, 
Nor  vex  with  faintest  moan 
For  my  life's  summer  flown 
The  drowsy  stillness  hanging  on  the  air. 
Therefore,  with  black  despair 
Let  me  enfold  my  brow — 
I  come  to  gather  the  gray  ashes  now 
That  in  the  long  gone  hours 
Were  blushing  flowers. 
Give  me  some  gentle  comfort,  gentle  Night, 
For  their  untimely  blight, 
Feeding  my  soul  with  the  delicious  sounds 
Of  waters  washing  over  hollow  grounds 
Through  beds  of  hyacinths,  and  rushes  green 
With  yellow  ferns  and  broad-leaved  flags  between  ; 
18 


TO      THE     SIGHT.  19 

Where  the  south  winds  do  sleep, 
Forgetting  their  white  cradles  in  the  deep. 

The  future  is  all  dim, 

No  more  my  locks  I  trim 

With  myrtles  or  gay  pansies,  as  I  used, 

Or  with  slim  jasmines  strung  with  pretty  flowers, 

As  in  the  blessed  hours 

Ere  yet  I  sadly  mused, 

Or  covered  up  from  my  lamenting  eyes 

The  two  sweet  skies, 

With  withered  holly  or  the  bitter  rue, 

As  now,  alas !   I  do. 

Since  Lyra,  for  whose  sake  the  world  was  fair, 

Is  lost,  I  know  not  where, 

Ah  me !  my  sweetest  song 

Must  do  his  beauty  wrong 

To  his  white  hands  I  give  my  heavy  heart, 

Saying,  Lovely  as  thou  art, 

Be  kindly  piteous  of  my  hapless  wo ! — 

Full  well  I  know 

How  changed  I  am  since  all  my  young  heart-beats 

Were  full  of  joyance,  as  of  pastoral  sweets 

The  long  bright  summer  times 

When  Love  first  taught  me  rhymes. 

Yet,  dear  one,  in  thy  smile 

The  light  they  knew  erewhile 

My  eves  would  gather  back,  and  in  my  eheek 

Beneath  thy  lip  the  flush  of  spring  would  break. 

Come,  thou,  about  whose  visionary  bier 


20  TOTHENIGHT. 

I  strew  in  softest  fear 

Pale  flowers  of  mandrakes  in  the  nightly  dreams, 

That  fly  when  morning  streams 

Slant  through  my  casement  and  fades  off  again, 

Soothing  no  jot  my  pain — 

Come  back  and  stay  with  me 

And  we  will  lovers  be  ! 

In  the  brown  shadows  of  the  autumn  trees, 

Lingering  behind  the  bees 

Till  the  rough  winds  do  blow 

And  blustery  clouds  are  full  of  chilly  snow, 

We  '11  sing  old  songs,  and  with  love  ditties  gay 

Beguile  the  hours  away. 

And  I  with  ivy  buds  thy  locks  will  crown, 
And  when  in  all  their  pretty  lengths  of  gold 
Straightened  with  moisture  cold 

Sorrowfully  drop  they  down, 
My  hands  shall  press  them  dry,  the  while  I  keep 
Soft  watches  for  thy  sleep, 
Weaving  some  roundelay, 
Of  that  pale  huntress,  haply,  whose  blue  way 

Along  the  heavens  was  lost, 
Finding  the  low  earth  sweeter  than  the  skies — 
Kissing  the  love-lit  eyes 

Of  the  fair  boy  Endymion,  as  he  crossed 
The  leafy  silence  of  the  woods  alone, 
In  the  old  myth-time  flown  ; 
Haply  of  Proteus,  all  his  dripping  Aocks 
Along  the  wild  sea-rocks 
Driving  to  pastures  in  fresh  sprouting  meads, 


T  O     T  II  E     N  I  G  II  T  .  21 

His  sad  brows  crowned  with  green  murmurous  reeds 

For  love  of  Leonora — she  for  whom 

The  blank  blanched  sands  were  shapen  to  a  tomb, 

Where,  under  the  wild  midnight's  troubled  frown, 

With  his  pale  burden  in  his  arms,  went  down 

Her  mortal  lover.     Moaningly  the  waves 

Wash  by  two  lonesome  graves ; 

One  holds  the  ashes  of  the  beauteous  boy 

Whose  harmless  joy 

Of  playing  the  fifth  season  in  the  sun, 

Was  all  untimely  done. 

Away,  my  dream,  away  ! 

Like  young  buds  blackened  in  the  front  of  May 

And  wasted  in  the  rude  and  envious  frost, 

My  early  hopes  are  lost. 

Oh  angel  of  the  darkness,  come  and  make, 

For  pity's  sake, 
My  bed  with  sheets  as  white  as  sheets  may  be, 
And  give  me  sweeter  grace  to  go  with  thee, 
Than  e'er  became  my  life.     No  lures  have  I, 

To  draw  thee  nigh, 
Of  beauty,  wit,  or  friends  to  make  ado ; 

Haply,  or  one  or  two, 
Seeing  me  in  my  shroud,  would  sigh,  "  Alas  !" 
As  for  a  daisy  gone  out  of  the  grass 
Wherein  bloomed  better  flowers.     If  so  it  fall, 
It  were  an  end  befitting  most  of  all 

The  close  of  my  bad  fortunes.     Thou 

Hearing  my  pleading  now, 


2'2  T0THEN1GHT. 

Knowest  well  how  true  I  speak, 
There  be  no  prints  of  kisses  on  the  cheek 
I  hide  against  thy  bosom,  praying  to  go 
Down  to  the  chamber  low, 

Wherein  I  shall  be  wed 

With  Lyra,  dead. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

Beneath  a  silvery  sycamore 

His  willow  pipe  I  saw  him  playing. 

The  heifer  down  the  hill  was  straying — 
Her  lengthening  shadow  went  before, — 

Toward  the  near  stubble-land :  the  lowing 
Of  labored  oxen,  pasturing, 

Called  her  that  way.     The  wind  was  blowing, 
And  the  tall  reeds  against  a  spring 

Of  unsunned  waters,  slantwise  fell, 

But  you  might  hear  his  song  right  well — 

"  I  would  that  I  were  bird  or  bee, 
Or  anything  that  I  am  not — 
Sweet  lady-love,  I  care  not  what, 

So  I  might  live  and  die  with  thee." 

The  grass  beneath  its  flowery  cover 

Was  softly  musical  with  bees; 

But  well-a-day  !  what  sights  may  please 
The  eyes  of  an  enchanted  lover  1 
In  dusty  hollows,  here  and  there, 

Among  gnarled  roots  the  flocks  were  lying, 

O'erclomb  by  lambs;  and  homeward  flying, 

23 


24 


THE     MINSTREL. 

The  birds  made  dusky  all  the  air ; 
The  yellow  light  began  to  fade 

From  the  low  tarn — the  day  was  o'er ; 
And  still  his  willow  pipe  he  played, 
Under  the  silvery  sycamore  : 
"  I  would  that  I  wrere  bird  or  bee, 
Or  anything  that  I  am  not — 
Lost  lady-love,  I  care  not  wrhat, 
So  I  might  live  and  die  with  thee." 

Down  through  the  long  blue  silences 

Came  the  owl's  cry ;  fire-flies  were  trimming 
Their  torches  for  the  night,  and  skimming 

Athwart  the  glooms ;  between  the  trees, 
Went  the  blind,  wretched  bat :  Ah  me, 
The  night  and  sorrow  well  agree ! 

The  meadow  king-cups  and  the  furze 
Were  pretty  with  the  harvest  dew, 
And  in  the  brook  the  thistle  threw 

The  shadows  of  its  many  burs. 

I  wis,  he  lovely  wras  to  see, 

In  the  gray  twilight's  pallid  shade, 
As  on  his  willow  pipe  he  played, 

Crowned  with  "  buds  of  poesy  " — 
"  I  would  that  I  were  bird  or  bee, 
Or  anything  that  I  am  not — 
A  sound,  a  breeze,  I  care  not  what, 
So  I  might  live  and  die  with  thee." 

Faint  gales  of  starlight  from  above 
Blew  softly  from  the  casement  light 


THE     MINSTREL.  25 

Across  the  pillow,  milky  white, 
Where  slept  the  lady  of  his  love, 

The  floating  tresses,  black  as  sloe, 

Fell  tangled  round  the  dainty  snow 
Of  cheek  and  bosom.  Gentle  seemed 
The  lady,  smiling  as  she  dreamed. 

But  not  of  him  her  visions  are, 

Who,  for  the  sake  of  the  sweet  light 
Within  her  casement,  vexed  the  night- 

Her  thoughts  are  travellers  otherwhere. 

At  midnight  on  a  jutting  cliff, 

A  raven  flapped  his  wings  and  cried ; 
Faintly  the  willow  pipe  replied — 
The  hands  upon  its  stops  were  stiff. 
Under  the  silvery  sycamore 

The  mournful  playing  was  all  done — 
If  there  be  angels,  he  was  one, 
For  surely  all  his  pain  was  o'er. 

At  morn  a  lady  walked  that  way, 

And  when  she  saw  his  quiet  sleeping, 

Upon  the  flowers,  she  fell  a-weeping, 
And  for  her  tears  she  could  not  pray. 
I  had  been  little  used  to  speak 

Of  comfort,  but  was  moved  to  see 
Her  piteous  heart  so  near  to  break, 

F<jr  the  pale  corse  beneath  the  tree ; 
And  so,  to  soothe  her  grief,  I  said 

The  way  he  died,  and  told  his  song ; 

u  Alas,  he  loved  me  well  and  long," 


£6  THE     MINSTREL. 

She  sighed  ;  "  I  would  that  we  were  wed 

As  lovers  use,  or  else  that  I 
Were  anything  that  I  am  not, 
Or  bird,  or  bee,  I  care  not  what, 

Here  in  the  pleasant  flowers  to  die." 

The  mist,  with  many  a  soft  fold,  shrouds 
The  eastern  hills,  birds  wake  their  hymns, 
And  through  the  sycamore's  white  limbs 

Shines  the  red  climbing  of  the  clouds. 
Making  my  rhymes,  I  heard  her  sigh, 

"  Ah,  well-a-day,  that  we  were  wed 
As  lovers  use,  or  else  that  I 

Here  on  the  pleasant  flowers  were  dead !" 


HYALA. 

Low  by  the  reedy  sea  went  ancient  Ops, 
Tracking  for  crownless  Saturn :  quietly 
From  her  gray  hair  waned  off  the  sober  light, 
For  Eve,  that  Cyclops  of  the  burning  eye, 
Slow  pacing  down  the  slumberous  hills,  was  gone. 
Under  the  black  boughs  of  a  cedarn  wood, 
Weary  of  hunting,  Dian  lay  asleep, 
Kissed  by  the  amorous  winds.     Close  to  her  feet, 
Cropping  the  scant  ambrosia,  Io  came, 
Her  slender  neck  hung  round  with  modest  bells 
Of  asphodel,  the  gift  of  Jupiter, 
Who,  for  the  jealous  love  that  Juno  had, 
Made  her  the  milk-white  heifer  that  she  was. 
So  slept  the  huntress,  while,  hard  by  the  wood 
Where  the  slant  sunset  lay  in  crimson  gores 
Athwart  the  dimness,  that  most  chaste  of  maids 
Whom  Dian  loved,  cold-bosomed  Hyala, 
Stood  leaning  on  her  slack  bow,  all  alone — 
Her  forehead  smooth  as  ice,  and  ivy-bound, 
And  in  her  girdle  of  blue  hyacinths 
Three  sharpest  arrows. 

All  unconsciously, 
Tripping  barefooted  through  the  violets, 

27 


OS 


HTALA. 


Iclalia,  fairest  shepherdess  of  all — 

In  her  white  hands  her  silver  milking-bowl, 

And  on  her  lip  the  music  of  a  heart 

Hungry  for  love — crossed  the  near  field,  her  song 

Sweetly  dividing  the  blue  silent  air : 

"  0  fair  Scamander,  bed  of  loveliness, 
When  wilt  thou  give  my  naked  limbs  to  lie 
Among  thy  marriage  pillows,  white  as  foam  !" 

In  the  pale  cheek  of  Hyala  burned  out 
An  angry  color,  as  she  saw  her  sit 
Singing  and  milking  in  her  silver  bowl. 
One  lily  shoulder,  under  rippling  lengths 
Of  dropping  tresses,  pressing  light  the  flank 
Of  a  plump  goat,  with  eyes  as  black  as  sloe, 
And  hoofs  of  pinky  silver,  dimpling  deep 
The  wild  green  turf  thick-sprouting  on  a  ridge 
That  topt  a  flowery  slope  in  Thessaly. 

Scorn  curled  the  lip  of  listening  Hyala, 
And  drawing  from  her  belt  the  nimblest  shaft, 
Straight  from  her  steady  hand  it  sped  and  sunk 
Deep  in  the  forehead  of  the  harmless  beast, 
That  moaning  fell,  and  bled  into  the  grass  : 
So  Hyala  went  laughing  on  her  way. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest. 

That  seemeth  best  of  all : 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below  ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coqueting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  shining  edge ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  be, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  the  best  to  me. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep  : 


29 


PICTURES      OF     MEMORY. 

Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers. 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  : 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  old  dim  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


GRAND-DAME  AND  CHILD. 

The  maple's  limbs  of  yellow  flowers 

Made  spots  of  sunshine  here  and  there 
In  the  bleak  woods ;  a  merry  pair 

Of  blue-birds,  which  the  April-showers 
Had  softly  called,  were  come  that  day; 
Another  week  would  bring  the  May, 

And  all  the  meadow-grass  would  shine 
With  strawberries ;  and  all  the  trees 
Whisper  of  coming  blooms,  and  bees 

Work  busy,  making  golden  wine. 

The  white-haired  grand-dame,  faint  and  sick, 

Sits  fretful  in  her  chair  of  oak ; 

The  clock  is  nearly  on  the  stroke 
Of  all  the  day's  best  hour,  and  quick 

The  dreamy  house  will  glimmer  bright — 
No  candle  needed  any  more, 

For  Miriam's  smile  is  so  like  light, 
Hie  moths  fly  with  her  in  the  door. 

31 


3'J  GRAND- DAME  AND  CHILD. 

The  lilies  carved  in  her  chair 

The  grand-dame  counts,  but  cannot  tell 
If  they  be  three  or  seven  ;  the  pair 

Of  merry  blue-birds,  singing  well, 
She  does  not  hear ;.  nor  can  she  see 

The  moonshine,  cold  and  pure,  and  bright, 

Walk  like  an  angel  clothed  in  white, 
The  path  where  Miriam  should  be. 

Almost  she  hears  the  little  feet 
Patter  along  the  path  of  sands; 

Her  eyes  are  making  pictures  sweet, 
And  every  breeze  her  cheek  that  fans, 

Half  cheats  her  to  believe,  I  wis, 

It  is  her  pretty  grandchild's  kiss. 

The  dainty  hood,  her  fancy  too 
Sees  hanging  on  the  cabin  wall, 

And  from  her  modest  eyes  of  blue, 
Fair  Miriam  putting  back  the  fall 

Of  her  brown  hair,  and  laughing  wild — ■ 

Her  darling  merry -hearted  child, 
Then  with  a  step  as  light  and  low 
As  any  wood-birds  in  the  snow, 

She  goes  about  her  household  cares. 

"  The  saints  will  surely  count  for  prayers 

The  duties  love  doth  sweeten  so," 
Says  the  pleased  grand-dame  ;  but  alas  ! 
No  feet  are  pattering  on  the  grass, 
No  hood  is  hanging  on  the  wall — ■ 
It  was  a  foolish  dreaming,  all. 


GRAND-DAME     AND     CHILD.  3:} 

The  morning-glories  winding  up 

The  rustic  pillars  of  the  shed, 
Open  their  dark  bells,  cup  by  cup, 

To  the  June's  rainy  clouds  ;  the  bed 
Of  rosemary  and  meadow-sweet 

Which  Miriam  kept  with  so  much  care, 

Is  run  to  weeds,  and  everywhere 
Across  the  paths  her  busy  feet 

Wore  smooth  and  hard,  the  grass  has  grown — 

And  still  the  grand-dame  sits  alone, 
Counting  the  lilies  in  her  chair — 

Her  ancient  chair  of  carved  oak — 

And  fretful,  listening  for  the  stroke 
Of  the  old  clock,  and  for  the  pair 

Of  blue-birds  that  have  long  been  still ; 

Saying,  as  o'er  the  neighboring  hill 
The  shadows  gather  thick  and  dumb — 
"  'T  is  time  that  Miriam  were  come." 

And  now  the  spiders  cease  to  weave, 

And  from  between  the  corn's  green  stems 

Drawing  after  her  her  scarlet  hems, 
Dew-dappled,  the  brown-vested  Eve 

Slow  to  his  purple  pillows  drops  ; 

His  tired  team  now  the  plowman  stops ; 
In  the  dim  woods  the  axe  is  still, 
And  sober,  winding  round  the  hill, 

The  cows  come  home.     "  Come,  pretty  one, 
I'm  watching  for  you  at  the  door," 
Calls  the  old  grand-dame  o'er  and  o'er, 

**Tis  time  the  working  all  wen-  done.*1 


31  GRAND-DAME     AND     CHILD. 

And  kindly  neighbors  come  and  go, 
But  gently  piteous ;  none  have  said, 

'*  Your  pretty  grandchild  sleepeth  so 
We  cannot  wake  her  ;"  but  instead 

Piling  the  cushions  in  her  chair, 
Carved  in  many  a  quaint  design 
Of  leaves  and  lilies,  nice  and  fine. 

They  tell  her  she  must  not  despair 
To  meet  her  pretty  child  again — 

To  see  her  wear  forever  more, 

A  smile  of  brighter  love  than  when 

The  moths  flew  with  her  in  the  door. 


AGATHA  TO  HAROLD. 

Come  there  ever  memories,  Harold, 

Like  a  half  remembered  song 
From  the  time  of  gladness  vanished 

Down  the  distance,  oh,  so  long! 
Come  they  to  me — not  in  sadness, 

For  they  strike  into  my  soul, 
As  the  sharp  axe  of  the  woodsman 

Strikes  the  dead  and  sapless  bole. 

Just  across  the  orchard  hill-top, 

Through  the  branches  gray  and  bare, 
We  can  see  the  village  church-yard — 

I  shall  not  be  lonesome  there. 
When  the  cold  wet  leaves  are  falling 

On  the  turfless  mound  below, 
You  will  sometimes  think  about  me, 

You  will  love  me  then,  I  know. 
In  the  window  of  my  chamber 

Is  a  plant  with  pale  blooms  crowned — 
If  the  sun  shines  warm  to-morrow, 

In  that  quiet  church-yard  ground 
I  will  set  it;  and  at  noontimes, 

When  the  school-girls  thither  wend, 

'60 


36  AGATHA     TO     HAROLD. 

They  will  see  it  o'er  me  blossom 

And  believe  I  had  a  friend. 
Knowest  thou  the  time,  oh  Harold, 

When  at  many  a  green  mound's  head 
Read  we  o'er  the  simple  records 

Love  had  written  of  the  dead. 
While  the  west  was  faintly  burning. 

Where  the  cloudy  day  was  set, 
Like  a  blushing  press  of  kisses — 

Ah,  thou  never  canst  forget ! 

"  Thou  art  young  "  thou  saidst,  "  thy  futur 

All  in  sunlight  seems  to  shine — 
Art  content  to  crown  thy  may  time 

Out  of  autumn  love  like  mine  ] 
Couldst  thou  see  my  locks  a  fading 

With  no  sorrow  and  no  fears  ? — 
For  thou  knowest  I  stand  in  shadows 

Deep  to  almost  twice  thy  years." 
In  that  time  my  life-blood  mounted 

From  my  bosom  to  my  brow, 
And  I  answered  simply,  truly — 

(I  was  younger  then  than  now) — 
"  Were  it  strange  if  that  a  daisy 

Sheltered  from  the  tempest  stroke, 
Bloomed  contented  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  overarching  oak  ?" 

When  the  sun  had  like  a  herdsman 
Clipt  the  misty  waves  of  morn, 

By  the  breezes  driven  seaward 
Like  a  flock  of  lambs  new-shorn ; 


AGATHA     TO      HAROLD.  37 

Thou  hadst  left  me,  and  oh,  Harold, 

Half  in  gladness,  half  in  tears, 
I  was  gazing  down  the  future 

O'er  the  lapses  of  the  years ; 
To  what  time  the  clouds  about  me — 

All  my  night  of  sorrow  done — 
Should  blow  out  their  crimson  linings 

O'er  the  rising  of  love's  sun ; 
And  I  said  in  exultation, 

"  Not  the  bright  ones  in  the  sky, 
Then  shall  know  a  sweeter  pleasure 

Than,  my  Harold,  thou  and  I." 

Thrice  the  scattered  seed  had  sprouted 

As  the  spring  thaw  reappeared, 
And  the  winter  frosts  had  grizzled 

Thrice  the  autumn's  yellow  beard  ; 
When  that  lovely  day  of  promise 

Darkened  with  a  dread  eclipse, 
And  my  heart's  long  clasped  joyance 

Died  in  moans  upon  my  lips. 
Silent,  saw  I  other  maidens 

To  a  thousand  pleasures  wed — 
"  Save  me  from  the  past,  good  angel !" — 

This  was  all  the  prayer  I  said. 
Sometimes  they  would  smile  upon  me 

As  their  gay  troops  passed  me  by, 
Saying  softly  to  each  other, 

"  How  is  she  content  to  die  ?" 


38  AGATHA     TO     HAROLD. 

Oh,  they  little  guess  the  barren 

Wastes  on  which  my  visions  go, 
And  the  conflicts  fierce  but  silent 

That  at  last  have  made  me  so. 
Shall  the  bright-winged  bird  be  netted 

Singing  in  the  open  fields, 
And  not  struggle  with  the  fowler. 

Long  and  vainly  ere  it  yields — 
Or  the  heart  to  death  surrender 

Mortal  hoping  without  strife  1 
But  the  struggle  now  is  ended — 

Give  me,  God,  a  better  life  ! 


LEGEND   OF  SEVILLE. 

Three  men  that  three  gray  mules  bestrode 
Went  riding  through  a  lonesome  road — 
Dust  from  the  largest  to  the  least 
Up  to  the  fetlock  of  each  beast. 

The  foremost  was  a  stripling  pale ; 
"  Comrades,"  he  said,  "  within  our  hail 
I  see  a  hostel,  white  as  snow — 
'T  is  night-fall— shall  we  thither  go  ?" 

"  Nay,"  said  the  other  two,  "  in  sooth 
'T  is  white  enough,  but  of  a  truth, 
Too  lowly  for  our  courtly  need — 
We  '11  gain  a  fairer  with  good  speed," 

So,  past  the  hostel  white  they  rode, 
These  men  that  three  gray  mules  bestrode, 
Till  led  the  pale  young  moon  afar, 
By  her  slim  silver  horn,  one  star. 

Right  wistfully  then  looking  back, 
Cried  out  the  middle  man,  "  Alack ! 
I  spy  a  rude  black  inn — shalt  see 
If  the  host  have  good  wine  for  three?" 

39 


40  LEGEND     OF     SEVILLE. 

"Now,"  said  the  hindmost,  "by  my  troth 
Shamed  is  my  knighthood  for  ye  both." — 
So,  pricking  sharply,  on  they  rode, 
These  men  who  three  gray  mules  bestrode. 

Close  where  a  whimpering  river  lay 
Stood  huts  of  fishers ;  all  that  day 
Drying  their  loose  nets  in  the  sun. 
They  told  how  murders  might  be  done. 

A  moorish  tower  of  yellow  stone 
Shadowed  that  river-bridge,  o'ergrown 
With  lichen  and  the  marish  moss — 
Forward  the  stripling  rode  to  cross  : 

Close  came  the  others  man  by  man, 
But  farther  than  the  shadow  ran, 
The  legend  says,  they  never  rode, 
These  men  who  three  gray  males  bestrode. 


TO  THE  WINDS. 

Talk  to  my  heart,  oh  winds — 
Talk  to  my  heart  to-night ; 

My  spirit  always  finds 
With  you  a  new  delight, 

Finds  always  new  delight, 

In  your  silver  talk  at  night. 

Give  me  your  soft  embrace 

As  you  used  to  long  ago. 
In  your  shadowy  trysting  place, 

When  you  seemed  to  love  me  so — 
When  you  sweetly  kissed  me  so, 
On  the  green  hills  long  ago. 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 

In  the  stilly  twilight  sea, 
For  the  dearest  hope  lies  dead, 

That  was  ever  dear  to  me ; 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 

And  we'll  talk  about  the  dead. 
41 


42  TO     THE     WINDS. 

Tell  me,  for  oft  you  go, 

Winds,  lovely  winds  of  night, 

About  the  chambers  low, 
With  sheets  so  dainty  white, 

If  they  sleep  through  all  the  night, 

In  the  beds  so  chill  and  white  : 

Talk  to  me,  winds,  and  say, 
If  in  the  grave  be  rest ; 

For,  oh,  life's  little  day 
Is  a  weary  one  at  best ; 

Talk  to  my  heart  and  say 
If  death  will  give  me  rest 


ANN  U  ARIES. 


A  year  has  gone  down  silently 

To  the  dark  quiet  of  the  Past, 
Since  I  beneath  this  very  tree 

Sat  hoping,  fearing,  dreaming,  last ; 
Its  waning  glories,  like  a  flame, 

Are  trembling  to  the  wind's  light  touch — 
All  just  a  year  ago  the  same, 

And  I — oh  !  I — am  changed  so  much  ! 

The  beauty  of  a  wildering  dream 

Hung  softly  round  declining  day  ; 
A  star  of  all  too  sweet  a  beam 

In  Eve's  flushed  bosom  trembling  lay ; 
Changed  in  its  aspect,  yet  the  same, 

Still  climbs  that  star  from  sunset's  glow, 
But  its  embrace  of  beauteous  flame 

No  longer  clasps  the  world  from  wo. 

Another  year  shall  I  return, 

And  cross  this  solemn  chapel  floor, 

While  round  me  memory's  shrine-lamps  burn- 

Or  shall  this  pilgrimage  be  o'er  ? 

43 


44  ANNU  ARIES. 

One  that  I  loved,  grown  faint  with  strife, 

When  drooped  and  died  the  tenderer  bloom, 

Folded  the  white  tent  of  young  life 
For  the  pale  army  of  the  tomb. 

The  dry  seeds  dropping  from  their  pods, 

The  hawthorn  apples  bright  as  dawn, 
And  the  grey  mullen's  starless  rods, 

Were  just  as  now  a  year  agone  ; 
But  changed  is  everything  to  me, 

From  the  small  flower  to  sunset's  glow, 
Since  last  I  sat  beneath  this  tree, 

A  year — a  little  year — ago. 

I  leaned  against  this  broken  bough, 

This  faded  turf  my  footstep  pressed ; 
But  glad  hopes  that  are  not  there  now, 

Lay  softly  trembling  in  my  breast — 
Trembling,  for  though  the  golden  haze, 

Rose,  as  the  dead  leaves  drifted  by, 
As  from  the  Vala  of  old  days,  ' 

The  mournful  voice  of  prophecy. 

Give  woman's  heart  one  triumph  hour. 

Even  on  the  borders  of  the  grave, 
And  thou  hast  given  her  strength  and  power 

The  saddest  ills  of  life  to  brave  ; 
Crush  that  far  hope  down,  thou  dost  brinf 

To  the  poor  bird  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Without  the  petrel's  stormy  wing 

To  beat  the  darkness  from  its  path. 


AN  NU  ARIES.  45 

Once  knowing  mortal  hope  and  fear, 

Whate'er  in  heaven's  sweet  clime  thou  art, 
Bend,  pitying  mother,  softly  near, 

And  save,  O  save  me  from  my  heart ! 
Be  still,  oh  mournful  memory, 

My  knee  is  trembling  on  the  sod — 
The  heir  of  immortality, 

A  child  of  the  eternal  God. 

ii. 
When  last  year  took  her  mournful  flight, 

With  all  her  train  of  wo  and  ill, 
As  pale  processions  sweep  at  night 

Across  some  lonesome  burial  hill — 
My  soul  with  sorrow  for  its  mate, 

And  bowed  with  unrequited  wrong, 
Stood  knocking  at  the  starry  gate 

Of  the  wild  wondrous  realm  of  song. 

Hope  from  my  noon  of  life  was  gone, 

With  all  the  sheltering  peace  it  gave, 
And  a  dim  twilight  stealing  on, 

Foretold  the  night-time  of  the  grave. 
Past  is  that  time  of  wild  unrest, 

Hope  reillumes  its  faded  track, 
And  the  soft  hand  of  love  has  prest 

Death's  deep  and  awful  shadows  back. 

A  year  agone,  when  wildly  shrill 

The  wind  sat  singing  on  this  bough, 
The  churchyard  on  the  neighboring  hill 

Had  not  so  many  graves  as  now. 


46  ANNUARIES. 

Yet  am  I  spared — God  knoweth  why, 
And  by  the  hand  of  Fancy  led. 

The  same  as  in  the  years  gone  by, 
Musing  this  idle  rhyme  I  tread. 

When  the  May-morn,  with  hand  of  light, 

The  clouds  about  her  bosom  drew, 
And  o'er  the  blue,  cold  steeps  of  night 

Went  treading  out  the  stars  like  dew — 
One,  whose  dear  joy  it  had  been  ours 

Two  little  summer  times  to  keep, 
Folded  his  white  hands  from  the  flowers, 

And,  softly  smiling,  fell  asleep. 

And  when  the  northern  light  streamed  cold 

Across  October's  moaning  blast, 
One  whose  brief  tarrying  was  foretold 

All  the  sweet  summer  that  was  past, 
Meekly  unlocked  from  her  young  arms 

The  scarcely  faded  bridal  crown, 
And  in  death's  fearful  night  of  storms 

The  dim  day  of  her  life  went  down. 

Above  yon  reach  of  level  mist 

Bright  shines  the  cross-crowned  spire  afar, 
As  in  the  sky's  clear  amethyst 

The  splendor  of  some  steadfast  star ; 
And  still  beneath  its  steady  light 

The  waves  of  time  heave  to  and  fro, 
From  night  to  day,  from  day  to  night, 

As  the  dim  seasons  come  and  go. 


ANNU  ARIES.  47 

Some  eager  for  ambition's  strife, 

Some  to  love's  banquet  hurrying  on, 
Like  pilgrims  on  the  hills  of  life 

We  cross  each  other,  and  are  gone ; 
But  though  our  lives  are  little  drops, 

Welled  from  the  infinite  fount  above, 
Our  deaths  are  but  the  mystic  stops 

In  the  great  melody  of  love. 

in. 

Vailing  the  basement  of  the  skies 

October's  mists  hang  dull  and  red, 
And  with  each  wild  gust's  fall  and  rise, 

The  yellow  leaves  are  round  me  spread  ; 
'Tis  the  third  autumn,  aye,  so  long  ! 

Since  memory  'neath  this  very  bough, 
Thrilled  my  sad  lyre  strings  into  song — 

What  shall  unlock  their  music  now  1 

Then  sang  I  of  a  sweet  hope  changed, 

Of  pale  hands  beckoning,  glad  health  fled, 
Of  hearts  grown  careless  or  estranged, 

Of  friends,  or  living,  lost,  or  dead. 
O  living  lost,  forever  lost, 

Your  light  still  lingers,  faint  and  far, 
As  if  an  awful  shadow  crossed 

The  bright  disk  of  the  morning  star. 

Blow,  autumn,  in  thy  wildest  wrath, 

Down  from  the  northern  woodlands,  blow  ! 

Drift  the  last  wild-flowers  from  my  path — 
What  care  I  for  the  summer  n«>w ! 


48  %   ANNU  ARIES. 

Yet  shrink  I,  trembling  and  afraid 

From  searching  glances  inward  thrown  ; 

What  deep  foundation  have  I  laid, 
For  any  joyance  not  my  own  ? 

While  with  my  poor,  unskilful  hands, 

Half  hopeful,  half  in  vague  alarm, 
Building  up  walls  of  shining  sands 

That  fell  and  faded  with  the  storm, 
E'en  now  my  bosom  shakes  with  fear, 

Like  the  last  leaflets  of  this  bough, 
For  through  the  silence  I  can  hear, 

"  Unprofitable  servant,  thou  !" 

Yet  have  there  been,  there  are  to-day 

In  spite  of  health,  or  hope's  decline, 
Fountains  of  beauty  sealed  away 

From  every  mortal  eye  but  mine ; 
Even  dreams  have  filled  my  soul  with  light, 

And  on  my  way  their  splendor  left, 
As  if  the  darkness  of  the  night 

Were  by  some  planet's  rising  cleft. 

And  peace  hath  in  my  heart  been  born, 

That  shut  from  memory  all  life's  ills, 
In  walking  with  the  blue-eyed  morn 

Among  the  white  mists  of  the  hills. 
And  joyous,  1  have  heard  the  wails 

That  heave  the  wild  woods  to  and  fro, 
When  autumn's  crown  of  crimson  pales 

Beneath  the  winter's  hand  of  snow. 


ANNUARIES.  49 

Once,  leaving  all  its  lovely  mates, 

On  yonder  lightning-withered  tree, 
That  vainly  for  the  springtime  waits, 

A  wild  bird  perched  and  sang  for  me ; 
And  listening  to  the  clear  sweet  strain 

That  came  like  sunshine  o'er  the  day, 
My  forehead's  hot  and  burning  pain 

Fell  like  a  crown  of  thorns  away. 

But  shadows  from  the  western  height 

Are  stretching  to  the  valley  low, 
For  through  the  cloudy  gates  of  night 

The  day  is  passing,  solemn,  slow, 
While  o'er  yon  blue  and  rocky  steep 

The  moon,  half  hidden  in  the  mist, 
Waits  for  the  loving  wind  to  keep 

The  promise  of  the  twilight  tryst. 

Come  thou,  whose  meek  blue  eyes  divine, 

What  thou,  and  only  thou  canst  sec. 
I  wait  to  put  my  hand  in  thine — 

"What  answer  sendest  thou  to  me? 
Ah  !  thoughts  of  one  whom  helpless  blight 

Had  pushed  from  all  fair  hope  apart, 
Making  it  thenceforth  hers  to  fight 

The  stormy  battles  of  the  heart. 

Well,  I  have  no  complaint  of  wrath, 

And  no  reproaches  for  my  doom  ; 
Spring  cannot  blossom  in  thy  path 

So  bright  as  1  would  have  it  bloom. 
8 


.SO  ANNUARIES. 

IV. 

Oh,  sorrowful  and  faded  years, 

Gathered  away  a  time  ago, 
How  could  your  deaths  the  fount  of  tears 

Have  troubled  to  an  overflow  1 
I  muse  upon  the  songs  I  »made 

Beneath  the  maple's  yellow  limbs, 
When  down  the  aisles  of  thin  cold  shade 

Sounded  the  wild  bird's  farewell  hymns 

But  no  sad  spell  my  spirit  binds 

As  when,  in  days  on  which  it  broods, 
October  hunted  with  the  winds 

Along  the  reddening  sunset  woods. 
Alas,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

Brightly  or  dimly  rise  and  set 
The  days,  but  stir  no  fount  of  wo, 

Nor  kindle  hope,  nor  wake  regret. 

I  sit  with  the  complaining  night, 

And  underneath  the  waning  moon, 
As  when  the  lilies  large  and  white 

Lay  round  the  forehead  of  the  June. 
What  time  within  a  snowy  grave 

Closed  the  blue  eyes  so  heavenly  dear, 
Darkness  swept  o'er  me  like  a  wave, 

And  time  has  nothing  that  I  fear. 

The  golden  wings  of  summer's  hours 
Make  to  my  heart  a  dirge-like  sound, 

The  spring's  sweet  boughs  of  bridal  flowers 
Lie  blight  across  a  smooth-heaped  mound. 


AXKUARIES.  51 

What  care  I  that  I  sing  to-day 

Where  sound  not  the  old  plaintive  hymns, 
And  where  the  mountains  hide  away 

The  sunset  maple's  yellow  limbs  ? 

v. 

Ox  the  brown,  flowerless  meadow  lies 

The  wraith  of  summer ;  oat  flowers  bright 
Nod  heavy  on  her  death-blind  eyes, 

Smiling  with  melancholy  light. 
And  Autumn,  with  his  eyelids  red 

Drooped  to  her  beauty,  sits  to-day, 
His  sad  heart  sweetly  comforted 

By  storms  upon  their  starless  way. 

Seasons  continuous,  mingling,  thrill 

Our  souls,  as  notes  that  sweetly  blend, 
Until  we  cannot,  if  we  will, 

Tell  where  they  or  begin  or  end. 
And  while  the  blue  fly  sings  so  well, 

And  while  the  cricket  chirps  so  low ; 
In  the  bright  grass,  I  scarce  can  tell 

If  there  be  daisy-flakes,  or  snow. 

But  when  along  the  slumberous  blue, 

And  dreamy,  quiet  atmosphere, 
I  look  to  find  the  April  dew, 

I  know  the  Autumn  time  is  here. 
The  lampless  hollow  of  the  skies 

Is  full  of  mists,  or  blank,  or  dun  ; 
Where  all  day.  soft  and  warm,  there  lies 

A  shadow  that  should  be  the  sun. 


52  ANNUARIES. 

The  winds  go  noiseless  on  their  way, 

Scarcely  the  lightest  twig  is  stirred ; 
Not  through  the  wild  green  boughs  of  May 

Slips  the  blue  lizard  so  unheard. 
Under  the  woolly  mullen,  flat 

Against  the  dust,  together  creep 
The  shining  beetles ;  and  the  bat 

Is  drowsing  to  his  winter  sleep. 

The  iron-weeds'  red  tops  are  down, 

Wilted  from  all  their  summer  sheen 
The  fennel's  golden  buds  arc  brown, 

And  loneliest  in  all  the  scene : 
Hither  and  thither  lightly  blows 

A  white  cloud  o'er  the  darkening  wood, 
Like  some  unpastured  lamb  that  goes 

Climbing  and  wandering  for  food. 

But  plenty  gladdens  all  the  world, 

For  corn  is  ripe,  if  flowers  be  o'er  ; 
Autumn,  with  yellow  beard  uncurled 

Jn  summer's  grave-damps,  sigh  no  more ! 
Si^h  no  more,  Autumn  !  sigh  no  more — 

For  if  the  blooming  boughs  have  shed 
Their  pleasant  leaves,  the  light  will  pour 

So  much  the  brighter  on  thy  head. 

And  while  thy  mourning  voice  is  staid 
I  '11  play  my  pipe,  so  adding  on 

Another  to  the  rhymes  I  made 

Ere  youth,  my  pretty  mate,  was  gone. 


ANNUARIE9.  53 

Winds,  stirring  through  the  pinetops  high, 

Or  hovering  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
Blow  softly  on  the  ways  that  lie 

Sloping  and  brightening  toward  che  West. 

Blow  softly,  for  my  thoughts  would  sweep, 

Upon  your  still  and  beauteous  waves, 
Back  to  the  woodlands  green  and  deep, 

Back  to  the  firesides  and  the  graves — 
The  firesides  of  the  rosiest  glow, 

The  graves  wherein  my  kindred  rest ; 
Winds  of  the  Northland,  softly  blow, 

And  bear  me  to  the  lovely  West. 

There  linger  sweetest  voices  yet, 

That  ever  soothed  from  grief  its  pain ; 
There  glow  the  hills  with  suns  long  set, 

And  there  my  heart  grows  young  again. 
The  hope  which  in  the  crimson  boughs 

Shut  up  her  wings  dim  years  away, 
Sits  with  her  wan  and  crownless  brows 

Leaned  on  the  sodded  grave  to-day. 

For  when  the  last  sweet  vision  died 

She  nursed  for  me,  there  fell  a  night 
Cloudy  and  black  enough  to  hide 

Her  smile's  almost  eternal  light. 
When  the  unkenneled  whining  winds, 

Went  last  year  tracking  through  the  snow, 
My  heart  was  comforted  with  friends 

Gone  on  the  last  long  journey  now — 


54  ANN  U  ARIES. 

Who  in  the  middle  heavens  can  view 

The  noontide  sun  without  a  sigh — 
A  yearning  for  the  faded  dew 

Where  morning's  broken  splendors  lie. 
And  from  the  glory  up  above, 

My  eyes  come  down  to  earth  and  mark 
The  pain,  the  sorrow  for  lost  love — 

The  awful  transit  to  the  dark. 

Weak  and  unworthy,  still  I  live, 

Harvests  and  plenteous  boughs  to  see ; 
My  God  !  how  good  thou  art  to  give 

Such  blessings  as  I  have  to  me. 
Oh  !  add  to  these  all  needful  grace — 

Divide  me  from  that  proud  disdain, 
Climbing  against  the  sunless  base 

Of  an  eternity  of  pain. 

VI. 

Once  more  my  annual  harp  !   alas, 

'Tis  the  sixth  season  nearly  run 
Since  the  brown  lizard  through  the  grass 

Crept  slow,  and  took  the  autumn  sun  : 
Since  the  wild  maple  boughs  above 

Shook  down  their  leaves  of  gold  and  red, 
The  while  I  made  my  song  of  love — 

If  there  be  angels  overhead 

Methinks  before  their  watchful  eyes 

They  well  may  cross  their  wings  and  rest ; 

What  need  they  guardians  in  the  skies 
Who  with  a  human  love  are  blest  ? 


ANNUAR1ES.  56 

Ah  me  !  what  wretched  storms  of  tears 
Have  made  maturer  life  a  dearth, — 

For  the  white  visions  of  young  years 
Grow  dimmer  than  the  common  earth  ? 

In  vain  !  the  swart  October  brings, 

In  its  rough  arms,  no  April  day — 
The  ousel  plunges  its  wild  wings 

But  in  the  rainy  brooks  of  May. 
The  rose  that  in  the  June  time  rain 

Comes  open,  could  not,  if  it  would 
Shut  up  its  red-ripe  leaves  again, 

And  go  back  to  a  blushing  bud. 

And  when  the  step  is  dull  and  slow, 

And  when  the  eye  no  longer  beams 
With  the  glad  hopes  of  years  ago, 

What  purpose  has  the  heart  with  dreams  ? 
Away,  wild  thoughts  of  sorrow's  flood — 

Wild  dreams  of  early  love,  away  ! 
In  calm  and  passionless  womanhood, 

Why  come  ye  thronging  back  to-day  ] 

And  you,  ye  questionings  that  rise, 

Of  life  and  death  and  hope's  surcease, 
Seal  up  again  your  mockeries — 

Peace,  peace  !  I  charge  you  give  me  peace  ! 
And  let  me  from  the  pain  and  gloom 

Gather  whatever  seems  like  truth, 
Forgetful  of  the  opening  tomb, 

Forgetful  of  the  closing  youth. 


56  ANNUARIES. 

Fain  would  my  thoughts  a  searching  go 

For  one  who  left  me  years  away — 
Haply  the  unblest  grasses  grow 

Upon  his  sweet  shut  eyes,  to-day. 
Oft  when  the  evening's  mellow  gleam 

Falls  slantwise  o'er  some  western  hill, 
And  like  a  ponderous,  golden  beam 

Lies  rocking — all  my  heart  grows  still. 

Listening  and  listening  for  the  fall 

Of  his  dear  step,  the  cold  moon  shines 
Betimes  across  the  southern  hall, 

And  the  black  shadows  of  the  vines 
O'erblow  the  mouldy  walls,  and  lie 

Heavy  along  the  winding  walks — ■ 
Where  oft  we  set,  in  Mays  gone  by, 

Streaked  lady-grass  and  hollyhocks. 

Within  a  stone's  throw  seems  the  sky 

Against  the  faded  woods  to  bend, 
Just  as  of  old  the  corn-fields  lie ; 

But  we,  oh,  we  are  changed,  my  friend  ! 
Since  last  I  saw  these  maples  fade, 

The  locusts  in  the  burial  ground 
Have  wrapt  their  melancholy  shade 

About  a  new  and  turfless  mound. 

And  one  who  last  year  heard  with  me 
The  summer's  dirges  wild  and  dread, 

Has  joined  the  peaceful  company 

Whom  we,  the  living,  mourn  as  dead. 


ANN  CARIES.  57 

Turning  for  solace  unto  thee, 

Oh.  Future  !  from  the  pleasures  gone, 

Misshapen  earth,  through  mists  I  see, 
That  fancy  dare  not  look  upon. 

God  of  the  earth  and  heaven  above, 

Hear  me  in  mercy,  hear  me  pray — 
Let  not  one  golden  stran  of  love 

From  my  life's  skein  be  shorn  away. 
Or  if,  in  thy  all-wise  decree, 

The  edict  be  not  written  so, 
Grant,  Lord  of  light !  the  earnest  plea 

That  I  may  be  the  first  to  go. 

And  when  the  harper  of  wide  space 

Shall  chant  again  his  mournful  hymn. 
While  on  the  summer's  pale  dead  face 

The  leaves  are  dropping  thick  and  dim — 
AY  hen  songs  of  robins  all  are  o'er, 

And  when  his  work  the  ant  forsakes, 
And  in  the  stubbly  glebe  no  more 

The  grasshopper  his  pastime  takes — 

What  time  the  gray-roofed  barn  is  full, 

The  sober  smiling  harvest  done, 
And  whiter  than  the  late  washed  wool, 

The  flax  is  bleaching  in  the  sun — 
The  friends  who  sewed  my  shroud,  sometimes 

Shall  come  about  my  grave  :  in  tears 
Ii«  [.eating  over  saddest  rhymes 

From  annuaries  of  past  years. 
3* 


LOST  LIGHT. 

So,  close  the  window  !  gray  and  blank  the  sky 
Slopes  to  the  nightfall,  and  the  wintry  woods 
Stand  black  and  desolate  ;  I  shall  not  see 
Spring,  like  a  sunrise  running  o'er  the  hills, 
Nor  yet  the  lark,  for  love's  insanity 
Fly  at  the  stars,  singing  his  heart  away. 

In  other  seasons,  I  was  little  used 
To  miss  the  wild  green  boughs :  thick  flaws  of  rain 
Fell  round  me  like  the  moonlight. 

Once,  I  know, 
A  mower  brought  me  some  red  berries  home, 
And  in  bright  plats  I  wore  them  in  my  hair, 
Playing  along  the  meadow-side  all  day. 
I  wish  that  time  were  back.     A  foolish  thought ! 
Its  faith  and  love  are  fallen  to  dead  dust 
Where  hope  sets  slips  of  roses  all  in  vain ; 
And  as  the  stormy,  dull,  and  gusty  eve 
Shuts  in  the  day,  my  day  is  closing  too ; 
The  playing  in  the  meadows  is  all  done. 

Mine  is  the  common  error,  to  have  given, 
For  shallow  possibilities,  the  straight 

And  even  chance  of  every  probable  good — 

58 


, 


LOST     LIGHT.  59 

From  fields  of  flowers  to  have  but  singled  out 
The  bright  one  that  was  deadly,  and  to  strive 
Through  prayer  and  passion  vainly  to  win  back 
My  blind  way  into  peace,  crying  to  be 
N  eedless  of  all  excuse — to  be  a  child, 
Treading  cool  furrows  scented  with  crushed  roots, 
To  chase  the  stubble  for  the  humming  bird, 
And  sing  out  with  the  homely  grasshopper. 

That  once  sweet  music,  April's  pleasant  rain, 
Plashing  against  the  roof,  grown  thick  with  moss, 
Comes  to  me  as  though  muffled  by  the  clods. 
The  tall  reeds  slant  together  as  the  winds 
Go  piping  through  them,  shepherding  the  lambs 
Where  tiny  fountains  lie  in  hollow  grounds, 
Rimmed  round  with  uncropt  daisies  and  bright  grass. 
Birds  mate  and  sing  together,  blossoming  twigs 
Swing  down  with  golden  bees,  the  anthills  swarm, 
And  the  black  spider  in  his  loom  of  limbs 
Weaves  busily.     The  sad  crow  calls  alone, 
The  milk-maid  plats  her  straw,  the  heifer's  low 
Runs  through  the  twilight,  quick  the  harmless  bat 
Flattens  his  thick  damp  wings  against  the  pane, 
Love  makes  its  lullaby,  brown  crickets  run 
Along  the  hearth-light,  proud  bright  hollyhocks 
Grow  in  the  village  garden  with  the  corn, 
Lilies  o'ertop  the  meadows,  rough  wild  trees 
Sprout  out  with  verdure  ;  for  the  pleasant  time, 

.  with  purple  plaits,  out  of  their  holes 
Snakes  travel  limberly  ;  blood-hungry  beastfl 
Lean  their  great  foreheads  close  and  lovingh  ; 


60  LOST     LIGHT. 

Moles  wallow  toward  the  light ;  the  sentinel  cock 
Cries  all  the  watches  ;  yet  no  more  the  morn, 
Upright  and  white,  smiles,  gathering  out  the  stars 
That  redden,  crown-like,  round  her  yellow  hair, 
But,  prone,  along  the  earth,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Slips  noiselike,  like  some  earth-burrowing  thing, 
That  only  lifts  its  pale  throat  in  the  sun. 

Oh,  if  I  dared  to  say  these  blushes  climb 
Up  to  my  cheek  from  a  heart  full  of  sin, 
Something  might  yet  be  done — my  blind  eyes  be 
Couched  to  some  apprehension  of  delight. 
Only  the  bad  go  sidling  to  the  truth 
Through  fate,  necessity  and  evil  chance, 
Saying,  "  I  trifled  with  a  tempting  thing — 
Berry  or  leaf — an  ugly-headed  worm — 
Call  it  a  viper — say  I  kissed  its  mouth, 
Or  once,  or  twice,  or  oftener,  if  you  will — 
And  what  of  that,  if  it  was  but  a  part 
That  needs  must  be  in  life?     Am  I  to  blame? 
Shrinking,  yet  drawn  along  by  baffling  power, 
Even  as  the  shamble's  bloody  enginery 
Winds  close  against  the  windlass  the  beast's  head. 

Ay,  who  can  be  absolved  by  conscience  so. 
Or  bring  the  lost  light  back  into  the  world ! 


PAUL. 

Crossing  the  stubble,  where,  erewhile, 
The  golden-headed  wheat  had  been, 

I  saw.  and  knew  him  by  his  smile. 

Night,  sad  with  rain,  was  flowing  in — 

I  drew  the  curtains,  soft  and  warm, 
And  when  the  room  was  full  of  light, 

We  sat — half  listening  to  the  storm, 
Half  talking — all  the  dreary  night. 

From  their  wet  sheds,  we  heard  the  moan 
Our  oxen  made — a  pretty  pair — 

And  heard  the  dead  leaves  often  blown 
In  gusty  eddies,  here  and  there. 

The  dull-eyed  spider  ran  along 

The  smoky  rafters  ;  the  gray  mouse 

Crossed  the  bare  floor ;   and  his  wild  song 
The  cricket  made  through  all  the  house. 

Twisting  the  brown  hair  into  rings, 

Above  his  meditative  eyes, 
I  counted  all  the  long-gone  springs 

That  we  had  sown  with  flowers ;  his  si«rhs 

61 


02  PAUL. 

Came  thick  and  fast,  as  well  they  might, 
But  when  I  said,  how  on,  and  on, 

For  his  sake,  I  had  kept  them  bright — 
The  slow,  reproachful  smile  was  gone. 

And  seeing  that  my  spoken  truth 

Glowed  in  my  silent  looks,  the  same, 

All  the  proud  beauty  of  his  youth 
Back  on  his  faded  manhood  came. 

About  my  neck  he  clasped  his  arm, 
As  in  affection's  morning  prime, 

And  said,  how  blest  he  was — that  storm 
Was  sweeter  than  the  summer-time  ! 

But  when  I  kissed  him  back,  and  said — 
The  embers  never  cast  a  gleam 

Through  our  low  cabin,  half  so  red, 
Sleep  vanished — all  had  been  a  dream. 


TO   THE   SPIRIT   OF   GLADNESS. 

Underneath  a  dreary  sky, 

Spirit  glad  and  free, 
Voyaging  solemnly  am  I 

Toward  an  unknown  sea. 
Falls  the  moonlight,  sings  the  breeze, 
But  thou  speakest  not  in  these. 

In  the  summers  overflown 

What  delights  we  had  ! 
Now  I  sit  all  day  alone, 

Weaving  ditties  sad  ; 
But  thou  comest  not  for  the  sake 
Of  the  lonesome  rhymes  I  make. 

Faithless  spirit,  spirit  free, 
Where  mayst  thou  be  found? 

Where  the  meadow  fountains  be 
Raining  music  round, 

And  the  thistle  burs  so  blue 

Shine  the  livelong  day  with  dew. 

Keep  thee,  in  thy  pleasant  bowers, 

From  my  heart  and  brain ; 

Even  the  summer's  lap  of  flower-* 

o:j 


64  TO     THE     SPRIT     OF     GLADNESS 

Could  not  cool  the  pain  ; 
And  for  pallid  cheek  and  brow 
What  companionship  hast  thou  1 

Erewhile,  when  the  rainy  spring 

Filled  the  pastures  full 
Of  sweet  daisies  blossoming 

Out  as  white  as  wool ; 
We  have  gathered  them,  and  made 
Beds  of  Beauty  in  the  shade. 

Would  that  I  had  any  frend 

Lovingly  to  go 
To  the  hollows  where  they  blend 

With  the  grasses  low, 
And  a  pillow  soft  and  white 
Make  for  the  approaching  night. 


THE  TRYST. 

The  moss  is  withered,  the  moss  is  brown 

Under  the  dreary  cedarn  bowers, 
And  fleet  winds  running  the  valleys  down 

Cover  with  dead  leaves  the  sleeping  flowers. 

White  as  a  lily  the  moonlight  lies 
Under  the  gray  oak's  ample  boughs ; 

In  the  time  of  June  'twere  a  paradise 
For  gentle  lovers  to  make  their  vows. 

In  the  middle  of  night  when  the  wolf  is  dumb. 
Like  a  sweet  star  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

They  say  that  a  damsel  at  times  will  come, 
And  brighten  the  chilly  light  under  the  tree. 

And  a  blessed  angel  from  out  the  sky 
Cometh  her  lonely  watch  to  requite ; 

Hut  not  for  my  soul's  sweet  sake  would  I 
Pray  under  its  shadow  alone  at  night. 

A  boy  by  the  tarn  on  the  mountain  side 

W  as  cruelly  murdered  long  ago, 

Where  oft  a  spectre  is  seen  to  glide 

And  wander  wearily  to  and  fro. 

65 


G6  THE     TRYST. 

The  night  was  sweet  like  an  April  night, 
When  misty  softness  the  blue  air  fills, 

And  the  freckled  adder's  tongue  makes  bright 
The  sleepy  hollows  among  the  hills. 

When,  startled  up  from  the  hush  that  broods 
Beauteously  o'er  the  midnight  time, 

The  gust  ran  wailing  along  the  woods 
Like  one  who  seeth  an  awful  crime. 

The  tree  is  withered,  the  tree  is  lost, 

Where  he  gathered  the  ashen  berries  red, 

As  meekly  the  dismal  woods  he  crossed — 
The  tree  is  withered,  the  boy  is  dead. 

Now  nightly,  with  footsteps  slow  and  soft, 
A  damsel  goes  thither,  but  not  in  joy  ; 

Put  thy  arms  round  her,  good  angel  aloft, 
If  she  be  the  love  of  the  murdered  boy. 

For  still  she  comes,  as  the  daylight  fides, 
Her  tryst  to  keep  near  the  cedarn  bowers. 

Bear  with  her  gently,  tenderly  maids, 

WThose  hopes  are  open  like  summer  flowers. 


j 


DEATH'S  FERRYMAN. 


Boatman,  thrice  I  've  called  thee  o'er, 
Waiting  on  life's  solemn  shore, 
Tracing,  in  the  silver  sand, 
Letters,  till  thy  boat  should  land. 

Drifting  out  alone,  with  thee, 
Toward  the  clime  I  cannot  see, 
Read  to  me  the  strange  device 
Graven  on  thy  wand  of  ice, 

Push  the  curls  of  golden  hue 
Prom  thine  eyes  of  starlit  dew, 
And  behold  me  where  I  stand, 
Beckoning  thy  boat  to  land. 

Where  the  river  mist,  so  pale, 
Trembles  like  a  bridal  veil, 
O'er  yon  lowly  drooping  tree, 
One  that  loves  me  waits  for  me. 

Hear,  still  boatman,  hear  my  call ! 

Last  year,  with  the  leaflet's  fall, 

Resting  her  pale  hand  in  mine, 

Crossed  she  in  that  boat  of  thine. 

67 


68  DEATH'S     FERRYMAN. 

When  the  corn  shall  cease  to  grow, 
And  the  rye-field's  sea-like  flow 
At  the  reaper's  feet  is  laid, 
(Crossing,  spoke  the  gentle  maid), 

Dearest  love,  another  year 
Thou  shalt  meet  this  boatmen  here — 
The  white  fingers  of  despair 
Playing  with  his  shining  hair. 

From  this  silver-sanded  shore. 
Beckon  him  to  row  thee  o'er  ; 
Where  yon  solemn  shadows  be, 
I  shall  wait  thee — come  and  see  ! 

— There !  the  white  sails  float  and  flow 
One  in  heaven  and  one  below ; 
And  I  hear  a  low  voice  cry, 
Ferryman  of  Death  am  I. 


JESSIE  CARROL. 


At  her  window,  Jessie  Carrol, 

As  the  twilight  dew  distils, 
Pushes  back  her  heavy  tresses, 

Listening  toward  the  northern  hills. 
"  I  am  happy,  very  happy, 

None  so  much  as  I  am  blest — 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  valley  of  the  West," 
Softly  to  herself  she  whispered  ; 

Paused  she  then  again  to  hear 
If  the  step  of  Allen  Archer, 

That  she  waited  for,  were  near. 
"  Ah,  he  knows  I  love  him  fondly  ! — 

I  have  never  told  him  so ! — 
Heart  of  mine,  be  not  so  heavy, 

He  will  come  to  night,  I  know." 

Brightly  is  the  full  moon  filling 
All  the  withered  woods  with  light, 

"  lie  has  not  forgotten  surely — 
It  was  later  yesternight !" 


70  JESSIE     CARROL. 

Shadows  interlock  with  shadows — ■ 

Says  the  maiden,  "  Woe  is  me  !" 
In  the  blue  the  eve-star  trembles 

Like  a  lily  in  the  sea. 
Yet  a  good  hour  later  sounded, — 

But  the  northern  woodlands  sway  ! — • 
Quick  a  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Thrust  the  heavy  vines  away. 
Like  the  wings  of  restless  swallows 

That  a  moment  brush  the  dew, 
And  again  are  up  and  upward, 

Till  we  lose  them  in  the  blue, 
Were  the  thoughts  of  Jessie  Carrol 

For  a  moment  dim  with  pain, 
Then  with  pleasant  waves  of  sunshine, 

On  the  hills  of  hope  again. 

"  Selfish  am  I,  weak  and  selfish," 

Said  she,  "  thus  to  sit  and  sigh ; 
Other  friends  and  other  pleasures 

Claim  his  leisure  well  as  I. 
Haply,  care  or  bitter  sorrow 

'Tis  that  keeps  him  from  my  side, 
Else  he  surely  would  have  hasted 

Hither  at  the  twilight  tide. 
Yet  sometimes  I  can  but  marvel 

That  his  lips  have  never  said, 
When  we  talked  about  the  future, 

Then,  or  then,  we  shall  be  wed ! — 
Much  I  fear  me  that  my  nature 

Cannot  measure  half  his  pride, 


JESSIE      CARROL.  71 

And  perchance  he  would  not  wed  me 

Though  I  pined  of  love  and  died. 
To  the  aims  of  his  ambition 

I  would  bring  nor  wealth  nor  fame. 
Well,  there  is  a  quiet  valley 

Where  we  both  shall  sleep  the  same  !" 
So.  more  eves  than  I  can  number, 

Now  despairing,  and  now  blest, 
"Watched  the  gentle  Jessie  Carrol, 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

ii. 

Down  along  the  dismal  woodland 

Blew  October's  yellow  leaves, 
And  the  day  had  waned  and  faded, 

To  the  saddest  of  all  eves. 
Poison  rods  of  scarlet  berries 

Still  were  standing  here  and  there, 
But  the  clover  blooms  were  faded, 

And  the  orchard  boughs  were  bare. 
From  the  stubble-fields  the  cattle 

Winding  homeward,  playful,  slow, 
With  their  slender  horns  of  silver 

Pushed  each  other  to  and  fro. 
Suddenly  the  hound  up-springing 

From  his  sheltering  kennel,  whined, 
As  the  voice  of  Jessie  Carrol 

Backward  drifted  on  the  wind — 
Backward  drifted  from  a  pathway 

Sloping  down  the  upland  wild, 


72  JESSIE     CARROL. 

Where  she  walked  with  Allen  Archer, 

Light  of  spirit  as  a  child ! 
All  her  young  heart  wild  with  rapture 

And  the  bliss  that  made  it  beat — 
Not  the  golden  wells  of  Hybla 

Held  a  treasure  half  so  sweet ! 
But  as  oft  the  shifting  rose-cloud, 

In  the  sunset  light  that  lies, 
Mournful  makes  us,  feeling  only 

How  much  farther  are  the  skies, — 
So  the  mantling  of  her  blushes, 

And  the  trembling  of  her  heart, 
'Neath  his  steadfast  eyes  but  made  her 

Feel  how  far  they  were  apart. 

"  Allan,"  said  she,  "  I  will  tell  you 

Of  a  vision  that  I  had— 
All  the  livelong  night  I  dreamed  it, 

And  it  made  me  very  sad. 
We  were  walking  slowly  seaward, 

In  the  twilight — you  and  I — 
Through  a  break  of  clearest  azure 

Shone  the  moon — as  now — on  high  ; 
Though  I  nothing  said  to  vex  you, 

O'er  your  forehead  came  a  frown, 
And  I  strove,  but  could  not  soothe  you- 

Something  kept  my  full  heart  down; 
When,  before  us,  stood  a  lady 

In  the  moonlight's  pearly  beam, 
Very  tall  and  proud  and  stately — 

(Allan,  this  was  in  my  dream  ! — ) 


JESSIE      CARROL. 

Looking  down,  I  thought,  upon  me, 

Half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn, 
Till  my  soul  grew  sick  with  wishing 

That  I  never  had  been  horn. 
'  Cover  me  from  wo  and  madness !' 

Cried  I  to  the  ocean  flood, 
As  she  locked  her  milk-white  fingers 

In  between  us  where  we  stood, — 
All  her  flood  of  midnight  tresses 

Softly  gathered  from  their  flow, 
By  her  crown  of  bridal  beauty, 

Paler  than  the  winter  snow. 
Striking  then  my  hands  together, 

O'er  the  tumult  of  my  breast, — 
All  the  beauty  waned  and  faded 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West !" 

In  the  beard  of  Allan  Archer 

Twisted  then  his  fingers  white, 
As  he  said,  "  My  gentle  Jessie, 

You  must  not  be  sad  to-night ; 
You  must  not  be  sad,  my  Jessie, 

You  are  over  kind  and  good, 
And  I  fain  would  make  you  happy, 

Very  happy — if  I  could  !" 
Oft  he  kissed  her  check  and  forehead, 

Called  her  darling  oft,  but  said, 
Nerer,  that  he  loved  her  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed; 
But  that  he  was  grieved  that  shadows 

Should  have  chilled  so  dear  a  heart ; 


JESSIE      CARROL. 

That  the  time,  foretold  so  often, 

Then  was  come — and  they  must  part! 
Shook  her  bosom  then  with  passion, 

Hot  her  forehead  burned  with  pain, 
But  her  lips  said  only,  "  Allan, 

Will  you  ever  come  again  V 
And  he  answered,  lightly  dallying 

With  her  tresses  all  the  while, 
Life  had  not  a  star  to  guide  him 

Like  the  beauty  of  her  smile  ; 
And  that  when  the  corn  was  ripened 

And  the  vintage  harvest  prest, 
She  would  see  him  home  returning 

To  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

When  the  moon  had  veiled  her  splendor, 

And  went  lessening  down  the  blue, 
And  along  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Burned  the  morning  in  the  dew, 
They  had  parted — each  one  feeling 

That  their  lives  had  separate  ends ; 
They  had  parted — neither  happy — 

Less  than  lovers — more  than  friends. 
For  as  Jessie  mused  in  silence, 

She  remembered  that  he  said, 
Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed. 

'Twas  full  many  a  nameless  meaning 
My  poor  words  can  never  say, 

Felt  without  the  need  of  utterance, 
That  had  won  her  heart  away. 


JESSIE     CARROL.  iU 

O  !  the  days  were  weary  !  weary  ! 

And  the  eves  were  dull  and  long, 
With  the  cricket's  chirp  of  sorrow, 

And  the  owlet's  mournful  song. 
Out  of  slumber  oft  she  started 

In  the  still  and  lonesome  nights, 
Hearing  but  the  traveller's  footstep 

Hurrying  toward  the  village  lights. 

So,  moaned  by  the  dreary  winter — 

All  her  household  tasks  fulfilled — 
Till  beneath  the  last  year's  rafters 

Came  the  swallows  back  to  build. 
Meadow-pinks,  in  flakes  of  crimson, 

Through  the  pleasant  valleys  lay, 
And  again  were  oxen  ploughing 

Up  and  down  the  hills  all  day. 
Thus  the  dim  days  dawned  and  faded 

To  the  maid,  forsaken,  lorn, 
Till  the  freshening  breeze  of  summer 

Shook  the  tassels  of  the  corn. 
Ever  now  within  her  chamber 

All  night  long  the  lamp-light  shines, 
But  no  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Pushes  back  the  heavy  vines. 
On  her  cheek  a  fire  was  feeding, 

And  her  hand  transparent  grew — 
Ah,  the  faithless  Allen  Archer! 

More  than  she  had  dreamed  was  true. 

No  complaint  was  ever  uttered, 
Only  to  herself  she  sighed, — 


7G  JESSIE     CARROL. 

As  she  read  of  wretched  poets 

Who  had  pined  of  love  and  died. 
Once  she  crushed  the  sudden  crying 

From  her  trembling  lips  away, 
When  they  said  the  vintage  harvest 

Had  been  gathered  in  that  day. 
Often,  when  they  kissed  her,  smiled  she. 

Saying  that  it  soothed  her  pain, 
And  that  they  must  not  be  saddened — 

She  would  soon  be  well  again ! 
Thus  nor  hoping  nor  yet  fearing, 

Meekly  bore  she  all  her  pain, 
Till  the  red  leaves  of  the  autumn 

Withered  from  the  woods  again  ; 
Till  the  bird  had  hushed  its  singing 

In  the  silvery  sycamore, 
And  the  nest  was  left  unsheltered 

In  the  lilac  by  the  door ; 
Saying,  still,  that  she  was  happy — 

None  so  much  as  she  was  blest — 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  valley  of  the  West. 

in. 

Down  the  heath  and  o'er  the  moorland 
Blows  the  wild  gust  high  and  higher, 

Suddenly  the  maiden  pauses 
Spinning  at  the  cabin  fire, 

And  from  out  her  taper  fingers 
Falls  away  the  flaxen  thread, 


JESSIE     CARROL. 

As  some  neighbor  entering,  whispers, 

"  Jessie  Carrol  lieth  dead." 
Then,  as  pressing  close  her  forehead 

To  the  window-pane,  she  sees 
Two  stout  men  together  digging 

Underneath  the  church-yard  trees ; 
And  she  asks  in  kindest  accents, 

"  Was  she  happy  when  she  died  ?" 
Sobbing  all  the  while  to  see  them 

Void  the  heavy  earth  aside  ; 
Or,  upon  their  mattocks  leaning, 

Through  their  fingers  numb  to  blow, 
For  the  wintry  air  is  chilly, 

And  the  grave-mounds  white  with  snow. 
And  the  neighbor  answers  softly, 

"  Do  not,  dear  one,  do  not  cry  ; 
At  the  break  of  day  she  asked  us 

If  we  thought  that  she  must  die  ; 
And  when  I  had  told  her,  sadly, 

That  I  feared  it  would  be  so, 
Smiled  she,  saying,  'Twill  be  weary 

Digging  in  the  churchyard  snow  !' 
1  Earth,'  I  said,  "  was  very  dreary — 

That  its  paths  at  best  were  rough  ; 
And  she  whispered,  she  was  ready, 

That  her  life  was  long  enough. 
So  she  lay  serene  and  silent, 

Till  the  wind,  that  wildly  drove, 
Soothed  her  from  her  mortal  sorrow, 

Like  the  lullaby  of  love." 


JESSIE     CARROL. 

Thus  they  talked,  while  one  that  loved  her 
Smoothed  her  tresses  dark  and  long, 

Wrapped  her  white  shroud  down,  and  simply 
Wove  her  sorrow  to  this  song : 

IV. 

Sweetly  sleeps  she :  pain  and  passion 

Burn  no  longer  on  her  brow — 
Weary  watchers,  ye  may  leave  her — 

She  no  more  will  need  you  now  ! 
While  the  wild  spring  bloomed  and  faded, 

Till  the  autumn  came  and  passed, 
Calmly,  patiently,  she  waited — 

Rest  has  come  to  her  at  last ! 
Never  have  the  blessed  angels, 

As  they  walked  with  her  apart, 
Kept  pale  Sorrow's  battling  armies 

Half  so  softly  from  her  heart. 
Therefore,  think  not,  ye  that  loved  her, 

Of  the  pallor  hushed  and  dread, 
Where  the  winds,  like  heavy  mourners, 

Cry  about  her  lonesome  bed, 
But  of  white  hands  softly  reaching 

As  the  shadow  o'er  her  fell, 
Downward  from  the  golden  bastion 

Of  the  eternal  citadel. 


HYPERION. 

Is  the  May  woods  alone — yet  not  alone, 

For  unsubstantial  beings  near  me  tread — 
At  times  I  hear  them  piteously  moan, 

Haply  a  plaint  for  the  o'ergifted  dead, 
That,  to  the  perfectness  of  stature  grown, 

Had  filled  for  aye  the  vacant  heart  of  time 
With  dulcet  rhythms,  and  cadences  unknown, 

In  all  the  sweetest  melody  of  rhyme. 

And  yet  alone,  for  not  a  human  heart 

Stirs  with  tumultuous  throbbings  the  deep  hush  ; 
Almost  I  hear  the  blue  air  fall  apart 

From  the  delirious  warble  of  the  thrush — 
A  wave  of  lovely  sound,  untouched  of  art, 

Going  through  air — "  a  disembodied  joy  :" 
But  in  between  each  blissful  stop  and  start, 

(Belike  such  sweet  food  else  our  hearts  would  cloy,) 

From  the  thick  woods  there  comes  into  the  vale 

A  long  and  very  melancholy  cry, 
Afl  of  a  spirit  in  that  saddest  bale — 

Clingling  to  sin  yet  longing  for  the  sky. 
Across  the  hill-tops  crowned  with  verdure  pale. 

A  gnarled  oak  stands  above  the  neighboring  trees, 

Rocking  itself  asleep  upon  the  gale — 

The  proudest  billow  of  the  woodland  m 

79 


80  HYPERION. 

A  thin  dun  cloud  above  the  sunken  sun 

Holds  the  first  star  of  evening's  endless  train, 
Clasped  from  the  world's  profaneness,  like  a  nun 

Within  the  shelter  of  the  convent  pane. 
Did  the  delicious  light  of  such  a  one 

Fleck  his  dark  pathway  with  its  shimmering  fire, 
Whose  fingers,  till  life's  little  day  was  done, 

Clung  like  charmed  kisses  to  his  wondrous  lyre  ? 

I  Ve  read,  in  some  chance  fragment  of  old  song, 

A  tale  to  muse  of  in  this  lovely  light, 
About  a  maiden,  flying  from  deep  wrong 

Into  the  chilly  darkness  of  the  night, 
Upon  whose  milk-white  bosom,  cold  and  long, 

Beat  the  rough  tempest ;  but  a  waiting  arm 
Was  reaching  toward  her,  and,  in  hope  grown  strong, 

Fled  she  along  the  woods  and  through  the  storm. 

But  how  had  he  or  heart  or  hope  to  sing 

Of  Madeline  or  Porphyro  the  brave, 
While  the  thin  fingers  of  wan  suffering 

Were  pressing  down  his  eyelids  to  the  grave  1 
How  could  he  to  the  shrine  of  genius  bring 

The  constant  spirit  with  the  bended  knee, 
Ruffling  the  horrent  blackness  of  Death's  wing 

With  the  clear  echoes  of  eternity  1 

Hark !  was  it  but  the  wind  that  swept  along, 

Shivering  the  hawthorn  hedges,  white  with  flowers  1 

The  swan-like  music  of  tiie  dying  song 

Seems  swimming  on  the  current  of  the  hours. 


HYPERION.  81 

If  Fancy  cheats  me  thus,  she  does  no  wrong — 
F«»r  mists  of  glory  o'er  my  heart  are  blown, 

And  shapes  of  beauty  round  about  me  throng, 
When  of  that  mused  rhyme  I  catch  the  tone. 

Tell  me,  ye  sobbing  winds  what  sign  ye  made, 

Making  the  year  with  dismal  pity  rife, 
When  the  all-levelling  and  remorseless  shade 

Closed  o'er  the  lovely  summer  of  his  life  : 
Did  the  sad  hyacinths  by  the  fountains  fade, 

And  tear-drops  touch  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
And  Muses,  empty-armed,  the  gods  upbraid, 

When  that  great  sorrow  to  the  world  was  born  1 

Ere  Fame's  wild  trumpet  to  the  world  had  thrown 

The  echo  of  his  lyre,  or  fortune  bless'd 
Pausing  where  "  men  but  hear  each  other  groan, 

He  felt  the  daisies  growing  on  his  breast." 
Then  sunk  as  fair  a  star  as  ever  shone 

Along  the  gray  and  melancholy  air ; 
And  from  Parnassus'  hoary  front,  o'erstrown 

With  plants  immortal,  moaned  infirm  Despair. 

Weave,  closely  weave,  your  vermeil  boughs  to-night. 

Fresh-budding  red  woods — hide  the  crooked  moon 
So ft  -shining  through  the  sunset,  slim  and  bright 

As  in  some  golden  millet  field  at  noon. 
Might  shine  a  mower's  scythe.     Too  much  of  light 

1  Jains  through  the  boughs,  too  much  is  in  the  sky, 
To  sort  with  singing  of  untimely  blight, 

And  mourning     all  of  Genius  that  can  die. 


THE  CONVENT. 

Come,  thou  of  the  drooping  eyelid, 

And  cheek  that  is  meekly  pale, 
Give  over  thy  pensive  musing 

And  list  to  a  lonesome  tale ; 
For  hearts  that  are  torn  and  bleeding, 

Or  heavy  as  thine,  and  lone, 
May  find  in  another's  sorrow 

Forgetfulness  of  their  own. 
So  heap  on  the  blazing  fagots 

And  trim  the  lamp  anew, 
And  I'll  tell  you  a  mournful  story — 

I  would  that  it  were  not  true ! 

The  bright  red  clouds  of  the  sunset 

On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  lay 
And  many  and  goodly  vessels 

Were  anchored  below  in  the  bay ; 
We  saw  the  walls  of  the  city, 

And  could  hear  its  vexing  din, 
As  our  mules,  with  their  nostrils  smoking, 

Drew  up  at  a  wayside  inn : 
The  hearth  was  ample  and  blazing, 

For  the  night  was  something  chill, 
But  my  heart,  though  I  knew  not  wherefore, 

Sunk  down  with  a  sense  of  ill. 
fc2 


T  H  I      C  O  X  V  KXT.  8.3 

That  night  I  stood  on  the  terrace 

O'erlooking  a  blossomy  vale, 
And  the  gray  old  walls  of  a  convent 

That  loomed  in  the  moonlight  pale — 
Till  the  lamp  of  the  sweet  Madonna 

Grew  faint  as  if  burning  low, 
And  the  midnight  bell  in  the  turret 

Swung  heavily  to  and  fro 
When,  just  as  its  last  sweet  music 

Came  back  from  the  echoing  hill, 
And  the  hymn  of  the  ghostly  friars 

In  the  fretted  aisle  grew  still, 
On  a  rude  bench,  hid  among  olives, 

I  noted  a  maiden  fair, 
Alone,  with  the  night  wind  playing 

In  the  locks  of  her  raven  hair. 
Thrice  came  the  sound  of  her  sighing, 

And  thrice  were  her  red  lips  pressed 
With  wild  and  passionate  fervor 

To  the  cross  that  hung  on  her  breast ; 
But  her  bearing  was  not  the  bearing 

That  to  saintly  soul  belongs, 

Albeit  she  chanted  the  fragments 

Of  holy  and  beautiful  songs. 

'T  was  the  half  hour  after  the  midnight, 
And,  so  like  that  it  might  be  now, 

The  full  moon  was  meekly  climbing 
Over  tin-  mountain's  brow, 

When  the  step  of  the  singing  maiden 


84  THE     CONVENT 

In  the  corridor  lightly  trod, 
And  I  presently  saw  her  kneeling 

In  prayer  to  the  mother  of  God  ! 
On  the  leaves  of  her  golden  missal 

Darkly  her  loose  locks  lay. 
And  she  cried,  "  Forgive  me,  sweet  Virgin, 

And  mother  of  Jesus,  I  pray  !" 

When  the  music  was  softly  melting 

From  the  eloquent  lips  of  Morn, 
Within  the  walls  of  the  convent 

Those  beautiful  locks  were  shorn  : 
And  wherefore  the  veil  was  taken 

Was  never  revealed  by  time, 
But  Charity  sweetly  hopeth 

For  sorrow,  and  not  for  crime. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARY'S. 

One  night,  when  bitterer  winds  than  ours, 

On  hill-sides  and  in  valleys  low, 
Built  sepulchres  for  the  dead  flowers, 

And  buried  them  in  sheets  of  snow — 
When  over  ledges  dark  and  cold 

The  sweet  moon  rising  high  and  higher, 
Tipped  with  a  dimly  burning  gold 

St.  Mary's  old  cathedral  spire — 
The  lamp  of  the  confessional, 

(God  grant  it  did  not  burn  in  vain,) 
After  the  solemn  midnight  bell 

Streamed  redly  through  the  lattice-pane. 

And  kneeling  at  the  father's  feet, 

Whose  long  and  venerable  hairs, 
Now  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Could  not  have  numbered  half  his  prayers, 
Was  one — I  cannot  picture  true 

The  cherub  beauty  of  his  guise ; 
Lilies,  and  waves  of  deepest  blue, 

Were  something  like  his  bands  and  eyea ! 

to 


B6  A     LEGEND     OF     ST.      MARYS. 

Like  yellow  mosses  on  the  rocks, 

Dashed  with  the  ocean's  milk-white  spray, 
The  softness  of  his  golden  locks 

About  his  cheek  and  forehead  lay. 
Father  !  thy  tresses,  silver-sleet, 

Ne'er  swept  above  a  form  so  fair ; 
Surely  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet 

Have  been  a  rosary  of  prayer  ! 
We  know  not,  and  we  cannot  know, 

Why  swam  those  meek  blue  eyes  with  tears ; 
But  surely  guilt,  or  guiltless  woe, 

Had  bowed  him  earthward  more  than  years. 

All  the  long  summer  that  was  gone, 

A  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride, 
Fainter  and  fainter  smiles  had  worn, 

And  on  that  very  night  she  died ! 
As  soft  the  yellow  moonbeams  streamed 

Across  her  bosom,  snowy  fair, 
She  said,  (the  watchers  thought  she  dreamed,) 

"  'Tis  like  the  shadow  of  his  hair  !" 
And  they  could  hear,  who  nearest  came, 

The  cross  to  sign  and  hope  to  lend, 
The  murmur  of  another  name 

Than  that  of  mother,  brother,  friend. 

An  hour — and  St.  Mary's  spires, 

Like  spikes  of  flame,  no  longer  glow — 

No  longer  the  confessional  fires 
Shine  redly  on  the  drifted  snow. 


A     LEGEND     OF     ST.      MARYS. 

An  hour — and  the  saints  had  claimed 

That  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride ; 
And  he,  whose  name  in  death  she  named, 

Was  darkly  weeping  by  her  side. 
White  as  a  spray-wreath  lay  her  brow 

Beneath  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 
But  all  those  passionate  kisses  now 

Wake  not  the  faintest  crimson  there  ! 
Pride,  honor,  manhood,  cannot  check 

The  vehemence  of  love's  despair — 
N  i  •  soft  hand  steals  about  his  neck, 

Or  bathes  its  beauty  in  his  hair  ! 

Almost  upon  the  cabin  walls 

Wherein  the  sweet  young  maiden  died, 
The  shadow  of  a  castle  falls, 

Where  for  her  young  lord  waits  a  bride ! 
With  clear  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair, 

In  her  high  turret  still  she  sits ; 
But  ah!  what  scorn  her  ripe  lips  wear — 

What  shadow  to  her  bosom  flits  ! 

From  that  low  cabin  tapers  flash, 

And,  by  the  shimmering  light  they  spread, 
She  sees  beneath  its  mountain  ash, 

Leafless,  but  all  with  berries  red, 
Impatient  of  the  unclasped  rein, 

A  courser  that  should  not  be  there — 
The  silver  whiteness  of  his  mane 

Streaming  like  moonlight  on  the  air  ! 


LEttEND    OF     ST.    MARY     S. 

Oh,  Love !  thou  art  avenged  too  well — 
The  young  heart,  broken  and  betrayed, 

Where  thou  didst  meekly,  sweetly  dwell, 
For  all  its  sufferings  is  repaid. 

Not  the  proud  beauty,  nor  the  frown 
Of  her  who  shares  the  living  years, 

From  her  the  winding-sheet  wraps  down, 
Can  ever  buy  away  the  tears ! 


THE   DAUGHTER. 

Alack,  it  is  a  dismal  night — 

In  gnsts  of  thin  and  vapory  light 

Bloweth  the  moonshine  cold  and  white 

Betwixt  the  pauses  of  the  storm, 

That  beats  against,  but  cannot  harm 

The  lady,  whose  chaste  thoughts  do  charm 

Better  than  pious  fast  or  prayer 

The  evil  spells  and  sprites  of  air — 

In  sooth,  were  she  in  saintly  care 

Safer  she  could  not  be  than  now 

With  truth's  white  crown  upon  her  brow — 

So  sovereign,  innocence,  art  thou. 

Just  in  the  green  top  of  a  hedge 
That  runs  along  a  valley's  edge 
One  star  has  thrust  a  shining  wedge, 
And  all  the  sky  beside  is  drear — 
It  were  no  cowardice  to  far 
If  some  belated  traveller  near, 
To  visionary  fancies  bora, 
Should  see  upon  the  moor,  forlorn, 
With  spiky  thistle  burs  and  thorn  ; 


90  THE      DAUGHTER. 

The  lovely  lady  silent  go, 

Not  on  a  "  palfrey  white  as  snow," 

But  with  sad  eyes  and  footstep  slow ; 

And  softly  leading  by  the  hand 

An  old  man  who  has  nearly  spanned 

With  his  white  hairs,  life's  latest  sand. 


Hope  in  her  faint  heart  newly  thrills 
As  down  a  barren  reach  of  hills 
Before  her  fly  two  whippoorwills; 
But  the  gray  owl  keeps  up  his  wail — 
His  feathers  ruffled  in  the  gale, 
Drowning  almost  their  dulcet  tale. 

Often  the  harmless  flock  she  sees 

Lying  white  along  the  grassy  leas, 

Like  lily-bells  weighed  down  with  bees. 

Sometimes  the  boatman's  horn  she  hears 

Rousing  from  rest  the  plowman's  steers, 

Lowing  untimely  to  their  peers. 

And  now  and  then  the  moonlight  snake 

Curls  up  its  white  folds,  for  her  sake, 

Closer  within  the  poison  brake. 

But  still  she  keeps  her  lonesome  way, 

Or  if  she  pauses,  'tis  to  say 

Some  word  of  comfort,  else  to  pray. 

For  'tis  a  blustery  night  withal, 

In  spite  of  star  or  moonlight's  fall, 

Or  the  two  whippoorwills'  sweet  call. 


THE      DAUGHTER.  91 

What  doth  the  gentle  lady  here 
Within  a  wood  so  dark  and  drear, 
Nor  hermit's  lodge  nor  castle  near? 
See  in  the  distance  robed  and  crowned 
A  prince  with  all  his  chiefs  around, 
And  like  sweet  light  o'er  sombre  ground 
A  meek  and  lovely  lady,  there 
Proffering  her  earnest,  piteous  prayer 
For  an  old  man  with  silver  hair. 

But  what  of  evil  he  hath  done 
O'erclouding  beauty's  April  sun 
I  know  not — nor  if  lost  or  won. 
The  lady's  pleading,  sweet  ana  low — 
About  her  pilgrimage  of  wo, 
Is  all  that  1  shall  ever  know. 


ANNIE  CLAYVILLE. 

In  the  bright'ning  wake  of  April 

Comes  the  lovely,  lovely  May, 
But  the  step  of  Annie  Clay  ville 

Falleth  fainter  day  by  day. 
In  despite  of  sunshine,  shadows 

Lie  upon  her  heart  and  brow  : 
Last  year  she  was  gay  and  happy — 

Life  is  nothing  to  her  now ! 

"When  she  hears  the  wild  bird  singing, 
Or  the  sweetly  humming  bee, 

Only  says  she,  faintly  smiling, 
What  have  you  to  do  with  me  1 

Yet,  sing  out  for  pleasant  weather, 
Wild  birds  in  the  woodland  dells — 

Fly  out,  little  bees,  and  gather 
Honey  for  your  waxen  wells. 

Softly,  sunlit  rain  of  April, 

Come  down  singing  from  the  clouds, 

Till  the  daffodils  and  daisies 

Shall  be  up  in  golden  crowds ; 
92 


ANNIE      CLATVILLE.  93 

Till  the  wild  pinks  hedge  the  meadows, 

Blushing  out  of  slender  stems, 
And  the  dandelions,  starry, 

Cover  all  the  hills  with  gems. 
From  your  cool  beds  in  the  rivers, 

Blow,  fresh  winds,  and  gladness  bring 
To  the  locks  that  wait  to  hide  you — 

What  have  I  to  do  with  spring *? 

May  is  past — along  the  hollows 

Chime  the  rills  in  sleepy  tune, 
While  the  harvest's  yellow  chaplet 

Swings  against  the  face  of  June. 

Very  pale  lies  Annie  Clayville— 

Still  her  forehead,  shadow-crowned, 
And  the  watchers  hear  her  saying, 

As  they  softly  tread  around  : 
Go  out,  reapers,  for  the  hill  tops 

Twinkle  with  the  summer's  heat — 
Lay  from  out  your  swinging  cradles 

Golden  furrows  of  ripe  wheat ! 
While  the  little  laughing  children, 

Lightly  mixing  work  with  play, 
From  between  the  long  green  winrows 

Glean  the  sweetly-scented  hay. 
Let  your  sickles  shine  like  sunbeams 

In  the  silver-flowing  rye, 
a  grow  heavy  in  the  cornfields — 

That  will  claim  you  by  and  by. 


94  ANNIE      CLAYVILLE. 

Go  out,  reapers,  with  your  sickles, 
Gather  home  the  harvest  store ! 

Little  gleaners,  laughing  gleaners, 
I  shall  go  with  you  no  more. 

Round  the  red  moon  of  October, 

White  and  cold  the  eve-stars  climb, 
Birds  are  gone,  and  flowers  are  dying — 

'Tis  a  lonesome,  lonesome  time. 
Yellow  leaves  along  the  woodland 

Surge  to  drifts — the  elm-bough  sway*, 
Creaking  at  the  homestead  window 

All  the  weary  nights  and  days. 
Dismally  the  rain  is  falling — 

Very  dismally  and  cold ; 
Close,  within  the  village  graveyard 

By  a  heap  of  freshest  mould, 
With  a  simple,  nameless  headstone, 

Lies  a  low  and  narrow  mound, 
And  the  brow  of  Annie  Clayville 

Is  no  longer  shadow  crowned. 
Best  thee,  lost  one,  rest  thee  calmly, 

Glad  to  go  where  pain  is  o'er — 
Where  they  say  not,  through  the  night-time, 
"  I  am  weary,"  any  more. 


YESTERNIGHT. 

Yesternight — how  long  it  seems! — 
Met  1  in  the  land  of  dreams, 
One  that  loved  me  long  ago — 
Better  it  had  not  been  so. 

For,  we  met  not  as  of  old — 

1  was  planting  in  the  mould 

Of  his  grave,  some  flowers  to  he, 

When  he  came  and  talked  with  me. 

"White  his  forehead  was,  and  fair, 
AVith  such  crowns  as  angels  wear, 
And  his  voice — but  I  alone 
Ever  heard  so  sweet  a  tone ! 

All  I  prized  but  yesterday 
In  the  distance  lessening  lay, 
Like  some  golden  cloud  afar, 
Fallen  and  faded  from  a  star. 

IIu>hed  the  chamber  is,  he  said, 
Hu-hed  and  dark  where  we  must  w<d, 
But  our  bridal  home  is  bright — 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to-night  ? 

(Jo 


96  YESTERNIGHT. 

Answering  then,  I  sadly  said, 
I  am  living,  thou  art  dead  ; 
Darkness  rests  between  us  twain, 
Who  shall  make  the  pathway  plain? 

Ah !  thou  lovest  not,  he  cried, 
Else  to  thee  I  had  not  died ; 
Else  all  other  hope  would  be 
As  a  rain-drop  to  the  sea. 

Farther,  dimmer,  earth  withdrew, 
Lower,  softer  bent  the  blue, 
And  like  bubbles  in  the  wine 
Blent  the  whispers,  I  am  thine. 

Angels  saw  I  to  their  bowers 
Bearing  home  the  sheaves  of  flowers, 
And  could  hear  their  anthem  swells, 
Reaping  in  the  asphodels. 

O'er  my  head  a  wildbird  flew, 
Shaking  in  my  face  the  dew  ; 
Underneath  a  woodland  tree, 
I,  my  love,  had  dreamed  of  thee. 


WINTER. 

Now  sits  the  twilight  palaced  in  the  snow, 

Hugging  away  beneath  a  fleece  of  gold 
Her  statue  beauties,  dumb  and  icy  cold, 

And  fixing  her  blue  steadfast  eyes  below, 
Where,  in  a  bed  of  chilly  waves  afar, 

With  dismal  shadows  o'er  her  sweet  face  blown, 
Tended  to  death  by  evening's  constant  star, 

Lies  the  lost  Day  alone. 

Where  late,  with  red  mists  thick  about  his  brows, 

Went  the  swart  Autumn,  wading  to  the  knees 
Through  drifts  of  dead  leaves,  shaken  from  the  bouglia 

Of  the  old  forest  trees, 
The  gusts  upon  their  baleful  errands  run 

O'er  the  bright  ruin,  fading  from  our  eyes — 
And  over  all,  like  clouds  about  the  sun, 

A  shadow  lies. 

For,  fallen  asleep  upon  a  dreary  world, 

Slant  to  the  light,  one  late  unsmiling  morn, 

From  some  rough  cavern  blew  a  tempest  cold, 
And  tearing  off  his  garland  of  ripe  corn, 
5  97 


08  WINTER. 

Twisted  with  blue  grapes,  sweet  with  luscious  wine, 
And  Ceres'  drowsy  flowers,  so  dully  red, 

Deep  in  his  cavern  leafy  and  divine, 
Buried  him  with  his  dead. 

Then,  with  his  black  beard  glistening  in  the  frost, 

Under  the  icy  arches  of  the  north, 
And  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  seasons  lost, 

Blustered  the  Winter  forth — ■ 
Spring,  with  your  crown  of  roses  budding  new, 

Thought-nursing  and  most  melancholy  Fall, 
Summer,  with  bloomy  meadows  wet  with  dew, 

Unmindful  of  you  all. 

Oh  heart,  your  spring-time  dream  will  idle  prove, 

Your  summer  but  forerun  your  autumn's  death, 
The  flowery  arches  in  the  home  of  love 

Fall,  crumbling,  at  a  breath ; 
And.  sick  at  last  with  that  great  sorrow's  shock, 

As  some  poor  prisoner,  pressing  to  the  bars 
His  forehead,  calls  on  Mercy  to  unlock 

The  chambers  of  the  stars — 
You,  turning  off  from  life's  first  mocking  glow 

Leaning,  it  may  be,  still  on  broken  faith, 
Will  down  the  vale  of  Autumn  gladly  go 

To  the  chill  winter,  Death. 

Hark  !  from  the  empty  bosom  of  the  woods 
1  hear  a  sob,  as  one  forlorn  might  pine — 
The  white-limbed  beauty  of  a  god  is  thine, 


WINTER.  99 

King  of  the  season  !  even  the  night  that  hoods 
Thy  brow  majestie,  glorifies  thy  reign — 
Thou  surely  hast  no  pain. 
But  only  far  away 

Makest  stormy  prophecies;  well,  lift  them  higher, 
Till  morning  on  the  forehead  of  the  day 

Presses  a  seal  of  fire. 
Dearer  to  me  the  scene 

Of  nature  shrinking  from  thy  rough  embrace, 
Than  Summer,  with  her  rustling  robe  of  green, 

Cool  blowing  in  my  face. 

The  moon  is  up — how  still  the  yellow  beams 

That  slantwise  lie  upon  the  stirless  air, 
Sprinkled  with  frost,  like  pearl-entangled  hair, 

O'er  beauty's  cheeks  that  streams! 
How  the  red  light  of  Mars  their  pallor  mocks, 

And  the  wild  legend  from  the  old  time  wins, 
Of  sweet  waves  kissing  all  the  drowning  locks 

Of  Ilia's  lovely  twins ! 

Come,  Poesy,  and  with  thy  shadowy  hands 

Cover  me  softly,  singing  all  the  night — 
In  thy  dear  presence  find  I  best  delight ; 

Even  the  saint  that  stands 
Tending  the  gate  of  heaven,  involved  in  beams 

Of  rarest  glory,  to  my  mortal  eyes 
Pales  from  the  blest  insanity  of  dreams 

That  round  thee  lies. 


100  WINTER. 

Unto  the  dusky  borders  of  the  grove 

Where  "  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, " 

Sat  in  his  grief  alone, 
Or,  where  young  Venus,  searching  for  her  love, 

Walked  through  the  clouds,  I  pray, 

Bear  me  to-night  away. 

Or  wade  with  me  through  snows 

Drifted  in  loose  fantastic  curves  aside, 

From  humble  doors  where  Love  and  Faith  abide, 
And  no  rough  winter  blows, 

Chilling  the  beauty  of  affections  fair, 

Cabined  securely  there, — ■ 
Where  round  their  fingers  winding  the  white  slips 

That  crown  his  forehead,  on  the  grandsire's  knees, 
Sit  merry  children,  teasing  about  ships 

Lost  in  the  perilous  seas ; 
Or  listening  with  a  troublous  joy,  yet  deep, 

To  stories  about  battles,  or  of  storms, 
Till  weary  grown,  and  drowsing  into  sleep, 

Slide  they  from  out  his  arms. 

Where,  by  the  log-heap  fire, 

As  the  pane  rattles  and  the  cricket  sings, 
I  with  the  gray-haired  sire 

May  talk  of  vanished  summer-times  and  springs, 
And  harmlessly  and  cheerfully  beguile 

The  long,. long  hours — 
The  happier  for  the  snows  that  drift  the  while 

About  the  flowers. 


WINTER.  101 

Winter,  wilt  keep  the  love  I  offer  thee? 

No  mesh  of  flowers  is  bound  about  my  brow  ; 
From  life's  fair  summer  I  am  hastening  now. 

And  as  I  sink  my  knee, 
Dimpling  the  beaut/  of  thy  bed  of  snow — 

Dowerless,  I  can  but  say — 

Oh,  cast  me  not  away  ! 


WOOD  NYMPHS. 

Wood  nymphs,  that  do  hereabouts 
Dwell,  and  hold  your  pleasant  routes, 
When  beneath  her  cloak  so  white, 
Holding  close  the  black-eyed  Night, 
Twilight,  sweetly  voluble, 
Acquaints  herself  with  shadows  dull ; 
While  above  your  rustic  camp, 
Hesperus,  his  pallid  lamp 
For  the  coming  darkness  trims, 
From  the  gnarled  bark  of  limbs 
Rough  and  crabbed — slide  to  view  ! 
I  have  work  for  you  to  do. 

To  this  neighborhood  of  shade 

Came  I,  the  most  woful  maid 

That  did  ever  comfort  glean 

From  the  songs  of  birds,  I  ween  ; 

Or  from  rills  through  hollow  meads, 

Washing  over  beds  of  reeds, 

When,  to  vex  with  more  annoy, 

Found  I  here  this  sleeping  boy. 
102 


WOOD     NYMPHS.  103 

I  must  learn  some  harmless  art, 

That  will  bind  to  mine  his  heart. 

Never  creature  of  the  air 

Saw  I  in  a  dream  so  fair. 

Wood  nymphs,  lend  your  charmed  aid — 

Underneath  the  checkered  shade 

Of  each  tangled  bough  that  stirs 

To  the  wind,  in  shape  of  burs, 

Rough  and  prickly,  or  sharp  thorn — 

"Whence  the  tame  ewe,  newly  shorn. 

Stained  with  crimson,  hurries  oft, 

Bleating  toward  the  distant  croft — 

Dew  of  potency  is  found 

That  would  leave  my  forehead  crowned 

AVith  the  very  chrisms  of  joy — 

The  sweet  kisses  of  this  boy. 

These  quaint  uses  you  must  know — 

Poets  wise  have  writ  it  so. 

"When  the  charm  so  deftly  planned, 
Shall  be  wrought,  I  have  in  hand, 
Work  your  nimble  crew  to  please, 
Mixed  alone  of  sweetnesses. 
This  it  is  to  bring  to  me 
Fairest  of  all  flowers  that  be — 
Oxlips  red,  and  columbines, 
Ivies,  with  blue  flowering  twines, 
Flags  that  grow  by  shallow  springs, 
Purple,  prankt  with  yellow  rings; 
Slim  ferns,  bound  in  golden  sheaves  ; 
Mandrakes,  with  the  notched  leaves; 


104  WOOD     NYMPHS. 

Pink  and  crowbind,  nor  o'erpass 
The  white  daisies  in  the  grass. 
Of  the  daintiest  that  you  pull, 
I  will  tie  a  garland  full, 
And  upon  this  oaken  bough 
Dropping  coolest  shadows  now, 
Hang  it,  'gainst  his  face  to  swing, 
Till  he  wakes  from  slumbering ; 
Evermore  to  live  and  love 
In  this  dim  consenting  grove. 

Shaggy  beasts  with  hungry  eyes — 
Ugly,  spotted,  dragonnies — 
Limber  snakes  drawn  up  to  rings, 
And  the  thousand  hateful  things 
That  are  bred  in  forests  drear, 
Never  shall  disturb  us  here ; 
For  my  love  and  I  will  see 
Only  the  sweet  company 
Of  the  nymphs  that  round  me  glide 
With  the  shades  of  eventide. 

Crow  of  cock,  nor  belfry  chime, 
Shall  we  need  to  count  the  time — 
Tuneful  footfalls  in  the  flowers 
Ringing  out  and  in  the  hours. 


HELVA. 

Her  white  hands  full  of  mountain  flowers, 
Down  by  the  rough  rocks  and  the  sea, 

Helva,  the  raven-tressed,  for  hours, 
Has  gazed  forth  earnestly. 

Unconscious  that  the  salt  spray  flecks 
The  ebon  beauty  of  her  hair — 

AVhat  vision  is  it  she  expects, 
So  meekly  lingering  there  ] 

Is  it  to  see  the  sea-fog  lift 

From  the  broad  bases  of  the  hills, 
Or  the  red  moonlight's  golden  drift, 

That  her  soft  bosom  thrills  ] 

Or  yet  to  see  the  starry  hours 

Their  silver  network  round  her  throw, 

That  'neath  the  white  hands  full  of  flowers, 
Her  heart  heaves  to  and  fro  i 

Why  strains  so  far  the  aching  eye  ? 
Kind  nature  wears  to-night  no  frown, 

And  the  still  beauty  of  the  sky 
Keeps  the  mad  ocean  down. 

6*  105 


106 


Why  are  those  damp  and  heavy  locks 
Put  back,  the  faintest  sound  to  win  1 

Ah !  where  the  beacon  lights  the  rocks, 
A  ship  is  riding  in ! 

Who  comes  forth  to  the  vessel's  side, 
Leaning  upon  the  manly  arm 

Of  one  who  wraps  with  tender  pride 
The  mantle  round  her  form  % 

Oh,  Helva,  watcher  of  lone  hours, 
May  God  in  mercy  give  thee  aid ! 

Thy  cheek  is  whiter  than  thy  flowers — 
Thy  woman's  heart  betrayed ! 


OCTOBER. 

Not  the  light  of  the  long  blue  Summer, 

Nor  the  flowery  huntress,  Spring, 
Nor  the  chilly  and  moaning  Winter, 

Doth  peace  to  my  bosom  bring, 
Like  the  hazy  and  red  October, 

When  the  woods  stand  bare  and  brown, 
And  into  the  lap  of  the  south  land, 

The  flowers  are  blowing  down ; 
When  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight, 

The  boughs  of  the  roof-tree  chafe, 
And  the  wind,  like  a  wandering  poet, 

Is  singing  a  mournful  waif; 
And  all  day  through  the  cloud-armies, 

The  sunbeams  like  sentinels  move — 
For  then  in  my  path  first  unfolded 

The  sweet  passion-flower  of  love. 

With  bosom  as  pale  as  the  sea-shell, 

And  soft  as  the  flax  unspun, 
And  locks  like  the  nut-brown  shadows 

In  the  light  of  the  sunken  sun, 

107 


108  OCTOBER. 

Came  the  maiden  whose  wonderful  beauty 

Enchanted  my  soul  from  pain, 
And  gladdened  my  heart,  that  can  never, 

No,  never  be  happy  again. 
Away  from  life's  pain  and  passion, 

Away  from  the  cares  that  blight, 
She  went  like  a  star  that  softly 

Goes  out  from  the  tent  of  night. 
But  oft,  when  the  fields  of  the  Autumn 

Are  warm  with  the  summer  beams, 
We  meet  in  the  mystic  shadows 

That  border  the  land  of  dreams. 
For  seeing  my  wo  through  the  splendor 

That  hovers  about  her  above, 
She  puts  from  her  forehead  the  glory, 

And  listens  again  to  my  love. 


THE  NEW-YEAR. 

Like  the  cry  of  Despair,  where  the  war-weapons  rattle, 
Or  the  moan  of  a  god  in  some  mythical  battle, 
Rung  out  o'er  the  senses  of  pain  and  of  swouning 
Above  the  death  woe  of  immortal  discrowning, 
There  came  yesternight  in  the  midst  of  my  dreaming 
A  wail,  waking  visions  of  terrible  seeming. 

The  fires  of  the  sunset  had  burnt  from  the  shadows 
Their  leashes,  and  slipt,  they  ran  over  the  meadows, 
Deepening  up  from  the  dulness  and  grayness  of  ashes, 
To  the  hue  of  that  deep  wave  the  night-time  that  washes, 
Where  sorrow's  black  tresses  are  gathered  up  never, 
But  sweep  o'er  the  red  pillows  ever  and  ever. 

Thus  startled  from  slumber,  I  fearfully  listened  : 
The  frost  had  been  busy,  and  phantom-shapes  glistened 
Along  the  cold  pane  where  the  dead  bough  was  creaking, 
When,  close  in  my  chamber,  I  heard  a  low  speaking ; 
And  I  said,  "Wherefore  comest  thou,  mystical  spirit1? 
Have  I  evil  or  good  at  thy  hands  to  inherit  ?" 

Like  a  rose-vine  entwining  some  ruinous  column, 
The  sweet  and  the  lovely  were  over  the  solemn, 
As  fell  through  the  silence  this  cadence,  replying : 
"  Watch  with  me,  oh  mortal,  watch  with  me,  I'm  dying!" 

109 


110  THE     NEW -YEAR. 

And  I  answered,  "  I  will,  by  the  blessed  evangel !" 
Unknowing  my  guest,  whether  demon  or  angel. 

It  seemed,  as  I  sat  with  the  sad  darkness  holding 
Communion,  I  almost  could  hear  the  shroud  folding 
About  the  still  bosom  and  smoothly  wound  tresses 
That  love  might  imprison  no  more  with  caresses — 
The  half-smothered  sobs,  and  the  orphan-like  calling, 
With  passionate  kisses  the  dust  over  falling. 

"  Art  thou  dead  V  I  said,  "  thus  doth  my  watch  have  its 

ending  1 
And  needest  thou  not  any  more  my  befriending  ?" 
"  Nay,  not  dead,  but  fallen,  and  mortally  wounded," 
The  death-subdued  accent  along  the  dark  sounded — 
"  Claimest  thou  of  me  largess'?"  "Yes,"  said  I,  "thy  story, 
So  number  me  swiftly  the  days  of  thy  glory." 

Along  the  wild  moorland  the  wind  whistled  dreary, 

And  low  as  a  death-watch  my  heart  beat,  a-weary, 

As  like  one  beside  the  hushed  portal  of  Aiden, 

Awaiting  the  accent  to  soothe  or  to  sadden, 

I  sat  in  expectancy,  charmed  and  holy, 

Till  thus  spake  the  spirit,  serenely  and  slowly : 

"  On  a  bed  of  dead  leaves  and  a  snow-pillow  lying, 
The  winds  stooping  round  him,  and,  sorrowful,  crying, 
His  beard  full  of  ice,  his  hands  folded  from  reaping, 
My  sire,  when  I  woke  into  life,  lay  a-sleeping, 
And  so  of  my  brief  reign  was  given  the  warning, 
Ere  yet  I  beheld  the  sweet  eyes  of  the  morning. 


THE     NEW-TEAR.  HI 

*  Blow  winds  of  the  wilderness,'  cried  I,  '  and  cover 
With  dim  dust  the  pallid  corpse  under  and  over, 
For  through  the  bright  gates  of  the  orient,  sweeping, 
The  heralds  of  day  come — I  would  not  be  weeping ;' 
And  putting  away  from  my  lip  sorrow's  chalice, 
i  left  him  beside  the  blue  wall  of  my  palace. 

So,  a  twelvemonth  agone,  with  my  young  wing  expanded, 
On  the  shores  of  my  kingdom,  a  monarch  I  landed  ; 
Star-lamps  were  aglow  in  the  cloudy-lined  arches, 
As  I  sent  the  first  embassy  hours  on  their  marches ; 
And  day.  softly  wrapt  in  a  fleece  that  was  golden, 
Came  up  when  my  council  with  light  first  was  holden. 

The  silvery  rings  of  two  moons  had  their  filling, 

When  the  north  drew  his  breath  in,  so  bitterly  chilling, 

And  clad  in  a  robe  of  red  hunter-like  splendor, 

On  a  hollow  reed  piping  a  madrigal  tender, 

Through  meadow  and   orchard,    came  March,  his  loud 

laughter, 
Half  drowned,  in  the  whine  of  the  winds,  crouching  after. 

Next  came  from  the  south  land,  one,  fair  as  a  maiden, 

Her  lap  with  fresh  buds  and  green  sprouting  leaves  laden ; 

Her  slight  dewy  fingers  with  daffodils  crowded, 

Her  lip  ever  smiling,  her  brow  ever  clouded; 

But  the  birds  on  her  flowery  wake  that  came  flying, 

Beside  a  thick  blossoming  hedge,  found  her  dying. 

Hlown,  like  a  silvery  cloud  o'er  the  edges 

Of  morning,  the  elder-blooms  swayed  in  the  hedges, 


112  THE     NEW-YEAR. 

The  quail  whistled  out  in  the  stubble,  and  over 
The  meadow  the  bee  went  in  search  of  the  clover ; 
When  came,  with  a  train  of  delights  for  her  warders, 
The  dewy-eyed  May,  up  the  green  river  borders. 

Bright  ridges  of  bees  round  the  full  hive  were  humming, 
Away  in  the  thick  woods  the  partridge  was  drumming ; 
The  rush  of  the  sickle,  the  scythe-stroke  serener, 
Were  pleasantly  mixed  with  the  song  of  the  gleaner, 
When  under  the  shadows  of  full-blowing  roses 
The  days  of  the  virginal  June  had  their  closes. 

When  oxen  unyoked  laid  their  foreheads  together, 
And  berries  were  ripe  for  the  school-boys  to  gather ; 
When  sultry  heats  over  the  hill-tops  were  winking, 
And  down  in  the  hollows  the  streamlets  were  shrinking; 
When  birds  hushed  their  musical  glee  to  a  twitter, 
Came  July,  with  a  mist  of  gold  over  her  litter. 

Like  the  slim  crescent  moon  through  an  amber-cloud 

shining 
Above  the  brown  woods  when  the  day  is  declining, 
Among  the  ripe  wheat-shocks  the  sickle  was  glowing, 
And  over  the  summer  dark  shadows  went  blowing, 
When,  crowned  with  the  oat-flowers,  heavy  and  yellow, 
Came  August,  her  cheek  with  the  summer's  sun  sallow. 

About  the  next  comer  deep  calmness  was  lying, 
And  yet  from  her  presence  the  wild  birds  went  flying, 
As  out  of  the  orchards  and  grape-woven  bowers, 
She  gathered  the  fruit  with  no  sigh  for  the  flowers, 


THE      NEW- YEAR.  113 

And  shook  down  the  nuts  on  the  withering  mosses, 
Unmindful  of  all  the  bright  summer-time  los 

When  harvesters  home  from  the  cornfield  were  bringing 
The  baskets  of  ripe  ears,  with  laughter  and  singing, 
What  time  his  past  labor  the  husbandman  blesses 
In  eups  of  sweet  cider,  just  oozed  from  the  presses, 
Beneath  the  broad  forest  boughs,  saddened  in  seeming, 
And  hooded  with  red  leaves,  October  sat  dreaming. 

Winds  for  the  dead  flowers  mournfully  searching, 
Tall  phantoms  that  out  of  the  darkness  came  marching, 
Clouds,  full  of  blackness  and  storms,  fleetly  flying, 
Or  on  the  bleak  edges  of  winter-time  lying, 
Quenching  with  chilly  rain  Autumn's  last  splendor — 
These  were  the  handmaids  that  came  with  November. 

Making  the  gentle  kine,  sorrowful  lowing, 
Turn  from  the  tempest  so  bitterly  blowing — 
Now  lying  on  slopes,  to  the  southern  light  slanted, 
N<av  filling  the  woods  with  hymns  mournfully  chanted. 
I  saw — my  steps  weakly  beginning  to  falter — - 
The  last  Season  lay  his  white  gift  on  the  altar. 

Then  I  knew  by  the  chill  through  my  bosom  slow  stealing, 

And  the  pang  at  my  heart,  that  my  dark  doom  waa  sealing, 

And  seeing  before  me  the  ever-hushed  portal, 

I  sought  to  reveal  to  some  pitying  mortal, 

The  while  from  my  vision  the  life-light  was  waning, 

The  gladness  and  grief  of  my  bright  and  brief  reigning. 

Ah.  many  a  poet  I  had  whose  sweet  idyls 

Made  vocal  the  chambers  of  births  and  of  bridals, 


114  THE     NEW-YEAR. 

And  many  a  priest,  too,  both  shaved  and  unshaven, 
To  hide  in  the  meal  of  the  world  the  Word's  leaven ; 
But  still  at  the  church  and  the  merry  mirth-making, 
With  the  good  and  the  gay   there  were  hearts  that  were 
breaking. 

Deeds  darker  than  night  and  words  sharper  than  daggers 

Have  peopled  my  wilderness  places  with  Hagars, 

The  wayfaring  man  has  been  often  benighted, 

Where  never  a  taper  for  guidance  was  lighted, 

But  over  the  desolate  cloud  and  the  scorning 

Has  risen  the  gladness  that  comes  with  the  morning. 

On  the  white  cheek  of  beauty  the  blushes  have  trembled, 
Betraying  the  heart  that  would  else  have  dissembled, 
When  the  eloquent  whisper  of  young  Love  was  spoken  ; 
But  oh,  when  the  burial  sod  has  been  broken 
For  dear  ones,  with  hands  folded  close  for  the  sleeping, 
The  nights  have  been  dismal  with  comfortless  weeping. 

Thus,  mortal,  I  give  to  your  keeping  this  story 
Of  transient  dominion — its  sadness  and  glory, 
And  while  my  last  accents  are  mournfully  spoken, 
The  sceptre  I  swayed,  in  my  weak  hand  is  broken, 
And  darkness  unending  my  gray  hair  is  hooding, 
And  over,  and  round  me,  the  midnight  is  brooding." 


The  silence  fell  heavy  ;  my  watching  was  over, 
The  old  year  was  dead,  and  though  many  a  lover 
He  had  in  his  lifetime,  not  one  would  there  tarry 
To  mourn  at  his  death-bed — for  all  must  make  merry 
About  the  young  monarch,  some  grace  to  be.  winning, 
With  welcome  or  gift,  while  his  reign  was  beginning. 


IN  THE  SUGAR  CAMP 

Upon  the  silver  beeches  moss 

Was  drawing  quaint  designs. 
And  the  first  dim-eyed  violets 

Were  greeting  the  March  winds. 
'T  was  night — the  fire  of  hickory  wood 

Burned  warm,  and  bright,  and  high — 
And  we  were  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 

Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 

T  was  merry,  though  the  willows  yet 

Had  not  a  tassel  on ; 
The  blue  birds  sung  that  year,  I  know, 

Before  the  snow  was  gone. 
Through  bunches  of  stiff,  frosty  grass 

The  brooks  went  tinkling  by  ; 
We  heard  them  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 

Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 

Broken  and  thin  the  shadows  lay 

Along  the  moonlit  hill, 
For  like  the  wings  of  chrysalids 

The  leaves  were  folded  still. 

1 1 5 


116  IN     THE     SUGAR     CAMP. 

And  so,  betwixt  the  times  we  heaped 
The  hickory  wood  so  high, 

When  we  were  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 
Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I, 

I  said  I  loved  her — said  I  'd  make 
A  cabin  by  the  stream, 

And  we  would  live  among  the  birds- 
It  was  a  pretty  dream ! 

I  could  not  see  the  next  year's  snow 
Upon  her  bosom  lie — 

When  we  were  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 
Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 


RHYME  OF  MY  PLAYMATE. 

Alas  !  his  praise  I  cannot  write, 
Nor  paint  him  true  for  other  eyes ; 

For  only  in  love's  blessed  light 

Could  you  have  known  him  good  or  wise. 

Beside  him  from  my  birth  I  grew, 
E'en  to  the  middle  time  of  youth, 

And  never  was  there  heart  so  true, 
Though  shy  of  all  the  shows  of  truth. 

Silent  he  often  sat,  and  sad, 

While  on  his  lips  there  played  a  smile, 
Which  told  you  that  his  spirit  had 

Some  lovely  vision  all  the  while. 

Like  flowers  that  drop  in  hidden  streams, 
Low  under  shelving  weights  of  ground, 

His  thoughts  went  drooping  into  dreams 
Though  never  trembling  into  sound. 

The  common  fields,  the  darkening  woods, 
The  silver  runnels  and  blue  skies, 

II     mused  of  in  his  solitudes 

And  gazed  on  with  a  lover's  eyes. 

*  117 


118  RHYME     OF     MY     PLAYMATE. 

The  hollow  where  we  used  to  stray, 

Gathering  the  rush  with  purple  joints — 

Till,  from  the  haycocks  thick  and  gray, 
The  shadows  stretched  in  dusky  points, 

And  homeward  with  their  glittering  scythes 
The  mowers  came,  and  paused  to  say 

Some  playful  reprimand  (the  tithes 
Of  our  thus  idling  all  the  day) — ■ 

Lay  green  beneath  the  crimson  swaths 
Of  sunset,  when  I  thither  came, 

And  the  thick  wings  of  twilight  moths 
Flitted  in  circles  all  the  same. 

And  the  brown  beetle  hummed  upon 
The  furrow  as  the  day  grew  dim. 

As,  when  in  sunset  lights  long  gone, 
I  trod  the  meadow-side  with  him. 

The  swallow  round  the  gable  led 

Her  fledgling  brood,  but  far  and  near, 

O'er  wood  and  wold  there  seemed  to  spread 
A  dry  and  dreary  atmosphere. 

Unpraised  but  in  my  simple  rhymes, 
With  sullen  brow  and  foosteps  slow, 

Along  the  wilds  of  burning  climes 
Alone,  unloved,  I  saw  him  go. 

No  heart  but  mine  his  memory  keeps — 
The  world  will  never  hear  his  name, 

Dreamless  he  lingers  by  the  steeps 

Whereon  he  misht  have  climbed  to  fame. 


THE  COMING  OF  NIGHT. 

A  -  white  as  the  moonlight  that  fell  at  her  feet 
She  stood,  but  for  blushes,  as  many  and  sweet 
As  the  tops  of  the  blossoms  that  grew  in  the  wheat, 

And  softly  caressed  me — 
Her  eyes  on  the  light  of  the  valley  hard  by ; 

for  the  bidding,  and  kissed  back  the  sigh 
And  the  speaking  to  silence,  that  said  "  I  would  die 

Where  the  love-story  blessed  me !" 

The  wind  sung  her  lullabies  out  of  the  trees 

With  starlights  betwixt  them — her  head  on  my  knees. 

She  said  to  me  only  such  sad  won  Is  as  these — 

"  Farewell,  I  am  going." 
And  so  fell  the  watches,  and  so  on  ihe  night, 
Came  wider  and  wider  the  daybreak  so  white, 
Till  shadows  of  flying  larks  went  through  the  light 
Where  the  shroud  must  be  sewing. 

I  felt  on  my  bosom  the  burden  grow  cold, 

And  holding  her  closer,  said,  "Sweet  one,  behold, 

The  sunrise  is  turning  the  woodside  to  gold. 

And  birds  go  up  singing  !" 

119 


120 


THE     COMING     OF     NIGHT 


She  smiled  not,  and  knowing  my  terrible  loss, 

I  made  her  a  pillow  of  loveliest  moss, 

And  laid  her  down  gently — her  white  hands  across, 


While  mine  fell  a  wringing. 


]  gathered  her  black  tresses  up  from  the  ground, 
Away  from  her  forehead  their  beauty  I  wound, 
And  when  with  fair  pansies  and  roses  I  bound 

Their  dim  lengths  from  straying, 
And  smoothed  out  her  garment  so  soft  and  so  white. 
Lying  there  in  the  shadows  of  morning  and  night, 
She  looked  like  a  bride  gone  asleep  in  the  light 

Of  the  sweet  altar-praying. 

I  knelt  to  the  white  ones  who  live  in  the  blue, 

And  told  them  how  good  she  had  been  and  how  true, 

And  then  there  was  nothing  more  that  I  could  do, 

The  need  was  all  over — 
Low  down  in  a  valley  of  quietest  shade 
W  ith  blossoms  strewed  over  the  shrowd  which  I  made 
On  a  bed  very  narrow  and  still  she  is  laid, 

To  sleep  by  her  lover. 


FJRE  PICTURES. 

In  the  embers  all  aglow, 

Fancy  makes  the  pictures  plain, 
•As  I  listen  to  the  snow 

Beating  chill  against  the  pane — 
The  wild  December  snow 

On  the  lamp-illumined  pane. 

Bent  downward  from  his  prime, 
Like  the  ripe  fruit  from  its  bough, 

As  I  muse  my  simple  rhyme, 
I  can  see  my  father  now, 

AVith  the  warning  flowers  of  time 
Blooming  white  about  his  brow. 

Sadly  flows  the  willow  tree 
On  the  hill  so  dear,  yet  dread, 

Where  the  r«- ting-places  be, 

Of  our  dear  ones  that  are  dead — 

Where  the  mossy  headstones  be, 
Of  my  early  playmates  dead. 

6  ia 


t'ZZ  FIRE       PICTURES. 

But  despite  the  dismal  snow, 
Blinding  all  the  window  o'er, 

And  the  wind,  that,  crouching  low, 
Whines  against  my  study  door, 

In  the  embers'  twilight  glow 
I  can  see  one  picture  more. 

Seeming  almost  within  call, 

'Neath  our  ancient  trysting  tree, 

Art  thou  pictured,  source  of  all 
That  was  ever  dear  to  me ; 

But  the  wasted  embers  fall, 
And  the  night  is  all  I  see — 

The  night  with  gusts  of  snow 
Blowing  wild  against  the  pane. 

And  the  wind  that  crouches  low, 
Crying  mournfully  in  vain, 

And  the  dreams  that  come  and  go 
Through  my  memory -haunted  brain. 


THE   WOOD   LILY. 

Betwixt  the  green  rows  of  the  corn, 
Ne'er  grew  a  wild  blossom  so  sweet — 

Her  mother's  low  cabin  was  gay 

With  the  music  that  followed  her  feet : 

Combing  now  the  white  lengths  of  the  wool 
With  hands  that  were  whiter  than  they ; 

Spinning  now  in  the  mossy-roofed  porch 
Till  the  time  when  the  birds  go  away. 

Her  hair  was  as  black  as  the  storm ; 

No  maiden  in  all  the  green  glen 
Was  so  pretty,  so  praised,  or  so  loved  : 

We  called  her  the  Wood  Lily,  then. 

The  church  wall,  so  gray  and  so  cold, 
Is  streaked  with  the  vines  which  she  set 

And  her  roses  beside  the  arched  door, 
In  summer  half  smother  it  yet. 

And  often  with  pitiful  looks 

They  pause,  who  put  by  the  lithe  shoots, 
As  if  something  said,  "It  were  well, 

If  Lily  lay  down  at  the  roots." 

123 


124  THE     WOOD     LILY. 

Dull  spiders  reel  up  their  white  skeins 

On  the  wheel  where  she  comes  not  to  spin, 

And  her  hands  have  pulled  all  the  bright  flowers 
From  the  locks  that  are  faded  and  thin. 

And  if  you  go  near  to  the  door, 

You  will  choke  with  the  coming  of  sighs, 

For  by  the  dark  hearth-stone  she  sits      ' 
All  the  day,  singing  low  lullabies, 

So  low,  they  may  scarcely  be  heard, 

While  the  smile  of  her  lip  and  her  brow, 

Like  sunbeams  are  gone  under  clouds — 
And  this  is  our  Wood  Lily,  now. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

Come,  sweet  spirit,  come,  I  pray, 
Thou  hast  been  too  long  away ; 
Come,  and  in  the  dreamland  light, 
Keep  with  me  a  tryst  to-night. 

When  the  reapers  once  at  morn 
Bound  the  golden  stocks  of  corn, 
Shadowy  hands,  that  none  could  see, 
Gleaned  along  the  field  with  me. 

Come,  and  with  thy  wings  so  white 
Hide  me  from  a  wicked  sprite, 
That  has  vexed  me  with  a  sign 
Which  I  tremble  to  divine. 

At  a  black  loom  sisters  three 
Saw  I  weaving ;  Can  it  be, 
Thought  I,  as  I  saw  them  crowd 
The  white  shuttles,  'tis  a  shroud  % 

Silently  the  loom  they  left, 
Taking  mingled  warp  and  weft, 
And,  as  wild  my  bosom  beat, 
Measured  me  from  head  to  feet. 

125 


126  TO      THE      SPIRIT     OF     SONG. 

Liest  thou  in  the  drowning  brine, 
Sweetest,  gentlest  love  of  mine, 
Tangled  softly  from  my  prayer, 
By  some  Nereid's  shining  hair  ? 

Or,  when  mortal  hope  withdrew, 
Didst  thou,  faithless,  leave  me  too. 
Blowing  on  thy  lovely  reed, 
Careless  how  my  heart  should  bleed  ? 

By  this  sudden  chill  I  know 
That  it  is,  it  must  be  so — 
Sprite  of  darkness,  sisters  three, 
Lo,  I  wait  your  ministry. 


A   CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

Tis  Christmas  Eve,  and  by  the  fire-light  dim, 

His  blue  eyes  hidden  by  his  fallen  hair, 
My  little  brother — mirth  is  not  for  him — - 

Whispers,  how  poor  we  are  ! 

Come,  dear  one.  rest  upon  my  knee  your  head, 
And  push  away  those  curls  of  golden  glow, 

And  I  will  tell  a  Christmas  tale  I  read 
A  long,  long  time  ago. 

Tis  of  a  little  orphan  boy  like  you, 

Who  had  on  earth  no  friend  his  feet  to  guide 

Into  the  path  of  virtue,  straight  and  true, 
And  so  he  turned  aside. 

The  parlor  fires,  with  genial  warmth  aglow, 
Threw  over  him  their  waves  of  mocking  light, 

Once  as  he  idly  wandered  to  and  fro, 
In  the  unfriendly  night. 

The  while  a  thousand  little  girls  and  boys, 

With  look  of  pride,  or  half-averted  eye. 
Their  hands  and  arms  o'erbrimrned  with  Christmas  toys 

Passed  and  repassed  him  by. 


1 28  A     CHRISTMAS     STORY. 

Chilled  into  half  forgetfulness  of  wrong, 
And  tempted  by  the  splendors  of  the  time, 

And  roughly  jostled  by  the  hurrying  throng, 
Trembling,  he  talked  with  crime. 

And  when  the  Tempter  once  had  found  the  way, 

And  thought's  still  threshold,  half- forbidden,  crossed, 

His  steps  went  darkly  downward  day  by  day, 
Till  he  at  last  was  lost. 

So  lost,  that  once  from  a  delirious  dream, 
As  consciousness  began  his  soul  to  stir, 

Around  him  fell  the  morning's  checkered  beam — 
He  was  a  prisoner. 

Then  wailed  he  in  the  frenzy  of  wild  pain, 

Then  wept  he  till  his  eyes  with  tears  were  dim, 

But  who  would  kindly  answer  back  again 
A  prisoner-boy  like  him  1 

And  so  his  cheek  grew  thin  and  paled  away, 
But  not  a  loving  hand  was  stretched  to  save ; 

And  the  snow  covered  the  next  Christmas-day 
His  lonesome  little  grave. 

Nay,  gentle  brother,  do  not  weep,  I  pray, 
You  have  no  sins  like  his  to  be  forgiven, 

And  kneeling  down  together,  we  can  sayj 
Father,  who  art  in  Heaven. 

So  shall  the  blessed  presence  of  content 
Brighten  our  home  of  toil  and  poverty, 

And  the  dear  consciousness  of  time  well  spent, 
Our  Christmas  portion  be. 


THE  DESERTED  FYLGIA.* 

Like  a  meteor,  radiant,  streaming, 

Seems  her  hair  to  me, 
And  thou  bear'st  her  feet  like  lilies, 

Dark  and  chilly  sea ! 

Wannish  fires  enclasp  her  bosom, 

Like  the  Northern  Light, 
And  like  icicles  her  fingers 

Glisten,  locked  and  white. 

On  the  blue  and  icy  ocean, 

As  a  stony  floor, 
Toward  thy  boat,  oh,  dying  Viking, 

Walks  she  evermore ! 

Like  a  star  on  morning's  forehead, 

When  the  intense  air, 
Sweeping  o'er  the  face  of  heaven, 

Lays  its  far  depths  bare — 

•  '■  A  Eh  mdinavian  wamor.  having  embraced  Christianity  and  being 
attacked  by  disease  which  he  thought  mortal,  was  naturally  anxious  that  a 
spirit  who  had  accompanied  him  through  his  pagan  career  should  not  attend 
him  into  that  other  world,  where  her  society  might  involve  him  in  diaagl 

.  .»nces.     Th«  persevering  Fylcia.  however,  in  the  i ha j-e  oi' a  fair  maiden, 
walked  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  after  her  Viking's  ship  r' 

6*  129 


130  THE     DESERTED     FYLGIA. 

Is  the  beauty  of  her  smiling, 
Pale  and  cold  and  clear — 

What,  oh,  fearful,  dying  Viking, 
Doth  the  maiden  here  1 

Moaningly  his  white  lips  tremble, 
But  no  voice  replies — 

Starlight  in  the  blue  waves  frozen, 
Seem  his  closing  eyes. 

Woman's  lot  is  thine,  oh  Fylgia, 
Mourning  broken  faith, 

And  her  mighty  love  outlasting 
Chance  and  change  and  death ! 


THE  HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

The  winds  of  March  are  piping  shrill, 

The  hall-moon,  slanting  low, 
Is  shining  down  the  wild  sea-hill 

Where,  long  and  long  ago, 
Love  ditties  singing  all  for  me, 

Sat  blue-eyed  Coralin — 
Her  grave  is  now  beneath  the  tree 

Where  then  she  Used  to  spin. 

Three  walnut  trees,  so  high  and  wild, 

Before  the  homestead  stand — 
Their  smooth  boles  often,  when  a  child, 

I  've  taken  in  my  hand  ; 
And  that  the  nearest  to  the  wall, 

Though  once  alike  they  grew, 
Is  not  so  goodly,  nor  so  tall, 

As  are  the  other  two. 

The  spinning  work  was  always  there — 
There  all  our  childish  glee ; 

But  when  she  grew  a  maiden  fair, 
The  songs  were  nut  for  me. 

131 


132  THE     HAUNTED     HOUSE. 

One  night,  twice  seven  years  't  has  been, 
When  shone  the  moon  as  now, 

The  slender  form  of  Coralin 
Hung  swinging  on  the  bough 

That 's  gnarled  and  knotty  grown  j  in  spring, 

When  all  the  fields  are  gay 
With  madrigals,  no  bird  will  sing 

Upon  that  bough,  they  say. 
And  through  the  chamber  where  the  wheel 

With  cob-webs  is  o'erspread, 
Pale  ghosts  are  sometimes  seen  to  steal, 

Since  Coralin  is  dead. 

The  waters  once  so  bright  and  cool, 

Within  the  mossy  well, 
Are  shrunken  to  a  sluggish  pool; 

And  more  than  this,  they  tell, 
That  oft  the  one-eyed  mastiff  wakes, 

And  howls  as  if  in  fear, 
From  midnight  till  the  morning  breaks— 

The  dead  is  then  too  near. 


, 


THE  MURDERESS. 

Along  the  still  cold  plain  o'erhead, 

In  pale  embattled  crowds, 
The  stars  their  tents  of  darkness  spread, 

And  camped  among  the  clouds ; 
Cinctured  with  shadows,  like  a  wraith, 

Night  moaned  along  the  lea  ; 
Like  the  blue  hungry  eye  of  Death, 

Shone  the  perfidious  sea  ; 
The  moon  was  wearing  to  the  wane. 

The  winds  were  wild  and  high, 
And  a  red  meteor's  flaming  mane 

Streamed  from  the  northern  sky. 

Across  the  black  and  barren  moor, 

Her  dainty  bosom  bare, 
And  white  lips  sobbing  evermore, 

Rides  Eleanor  the  fair. 
So  hath  the  pining  sea-maid  plained 

For  love  of  mortal  lips, 
Riding  the  billows,  silver-reined, 

Hard  by  disastrous  ships. 

133 


134  THE     MURDERESS. 

Why  covers  she  her  mournful  eyes  ? 

Why  do  her  pulses  cease, 
As  if  she  saw  before  her  rise 

The  ghost  of  murdered  Peace  ? 
From  out  her  path  the  ground-bird  drifts 

With  wildly  startled  calls, 
The  moonlight  snake  its  white  fold  lifts 

From  where  her  shadow  falls. 

Ah  me !  that  delicate  hand  of  hers, 

Now  trembling  like  a  reed, 
Like  to  the  ancient  mariner's, 

Hath  done  a  hellish  deed ; 
And  full  of  mercy  were  the  frown 

Which  might  the  power  impart 
To  press  the  eternal  darkness  down 

Against  her  bleeding  heart. 


CONTENT. 

My  house  is  low  and  small. 

But  behind  a  row  of  trees, 
I  eateh  the  golden  fall 

Of  the  sunset  in  the  seas  ; 
And  a  stone  wall  hanging  white 

With  the  roses  of  the  May, 
Were  less  pleasant  to  my  sight 

Than  the  fading  of  to-day. 
From  a  brook  a  heifer  drinks 

In  a  field  of  pasture  ground, 
With  wild  violets  and  pinks 

For  a  border  all  around. 

My  house  is  small  and  low, 

But  the  willow  by  the  door 
Doth  a  cool  deep  shadow  throw 

In  the  summer  on  my  floor ; 
And  in  long  and  rainy  nights 

When  the  limbs  of  leaves  are  bare, 
I  can  see  the  window  lights 

Of  the  homesteads  otherwhere. 

135 


136  .CONTENT. 

My  house  is  small  and  low, 

But  with  pictures  such  as  these 
Of  the  sunset  and  the  row 

Of  illuminated  trees, 
And  the  heifer  as  she  drinks 

From  the  field  of  meadowed  ground, 
With  the  violets  and  pinks 

For  a  border  ail  around, 
Let  me  never,  foolish,  pray 

For  a  vision  wider  spread, 
But  contented,  only  say, 

Give  me,  Lord,  my  daily  bread. 


OF  ONE  ASLEEP. 

Once  when  we  lingered,  sorrow-proof, 

My  gentle  love  and  me, 
Beneath  a  green  and  pleasant  roof 

Of  oak  leaves  by  the  sea, 
Like  yellow  violets,  springing  bright 

From  furrows  newly  turned, 
Among  the  nut-brown  clouds  the  light 

Of  sunset  softly  burned. 
Then,  veiling  close  her  pensive  face 

In  clouds  of  transient  flame, 
The  silent  child  of  the  embrace 

Of  light  and  darkness  came : 
We  saw  her  closing  now  the  flower 

And  warning  home  the  bee, 
Now  painting  with  a  godlike  powei 

The  arteries  of  the  sea  ; 
And  heard  the  wind  beneath  nights  frown 

Displacing  quick  her  smile, 
Laughingly  running  up  and  down 

The  green  hills  all  the  while ; 

137 


138  OF     ONE     ASLEEP. 

Love  to  our  hearts  had  newly  brought 
Sweeter  than  Eden  gleams, 

And  no  dark  underswell  of  thought 
Troubled  the  sea  of  dreams. 

Low  down  beneath  an  oaken  roof 

Of  dim  leaves  by  the  sea — 
Where  then  we  lingered,  sorrow-proof, 

My  gentle  love  and  me — 
While  sunset  softly  lights  the  bower, 

And  wave  embraces  wave, 
The  shadow  of  the  passion  flower 

Lies  darkly  on  his  grave. 
And  musing  of  his  pillow  low, 

His  slumber  deep  and  long, 
My  heart  keeps  heaving  to  and  fro 

Upon  the  waves  of  song. 
No  more  through  sunset's  sinking  fire 

Are  Eden-gleams  descried, 
The  sweetest  chord  of  all  life's  lyre 

Was  shattered  when  he  died. 
Yet  not  one  memory  would  I  sell. 

However  woeful  proved, 
For  all  the  brightest  joys  that  dwell 

In  souls  that  never  loved. 


DISSATISFIED. 

For  me,  in  all  life's  desert  sand 

No  well  is  made,  no  tent  is  spread ; 
No  father's  nor  a  brother's  hand 

Is  laid  in  blessing  on  my  head. 
The  radiance  of  my  mortal  star 

Is  crossed  with  signs  of  woe  to  me, 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes  are 

Sad  wanderers  toward  eternity. 

Stricken,  riven  helplessly  apart 

From  all  that  blest  the  path  I  trod ; 
Oh  tempt  me,  tempt  me  not,  my  heart, 

To  arraign  the  goodness  of  my  God ! 
For  suffering  hath  been  made  sublime, 

And  souls,  that  lived  and  died  alone, 
Have  left  an  echo  for  all  time, 

As  they  went  wailing  to  the  throne. 

There  have  been  moments  when  I  dared 
Believe  life's  mystery  a  breath, 

And  deem  Faith's  beauteous  bosom  bared 
To  the  betraying  arms  of  Death ; 

139 


140  DISSATISFIED. 

For  the  immortal  life  but  mocks 

The  soul  that  feels  its  ruin  dire, 
And  like  a  tortured  demon  rocks 

Upon  the  cradling  waves  of  fire. 
To  mine  is  pressed  no  loving  lip, 

Around  me  twines  no  helping  arm ; 
And  like  a  frail  dismasted  ship 

I  blindly  drift  before  the  storm. 


DYING    SONG. 

Leave  me,  O  leave  me !  my  o'erwearied  feet, 
O  my  beloved  !  may  walk  no  more  with  thee ; 

For  I  am  standing  where  the  circles  meet 
That  mortals  name,  Time  and  Eternity. 

Tell  me,  O  tell  me  not  of  summer  flowers 
In  vales  where  once  our  steps  together  trod ; 

Even  though  I  now  behold  the  shining  towers 
That  rise  above  the  city  of  our  God. 

I  know  that  the  wide  fields  of  heaven  are  fair — 
That  on  their  borders  grief  is  all  forgot ; 

That  the  white  tents  of  beauty,  too,  are  there — 
But  how  shall  I  be  blessed  where  thou  art  not? 

Over  the  green  hills,  that  are  only  crossed 
By  drifts  of  light,  and  choruses  of  glee, 

How  shall  I  wander  like  a  spirit  lost, 

And  fallen  and  ruined,  missing,  mourning  thee  ! 

If  any  wrong  of  mine,  or  thought,  or  said, 
Has  given  thee  pain  or  sorrow,  O  forgive ! 

As  wilt  thou  not,  my  friend,  when  I  am  dead, 
And  by  my  errors  better  learn  to  live. 

141 


142  DYING     SONG. 

There  is  not  found  in  all  the  pleasant  past, 

One  memory  of  thee  that  I  deplore, 
Or  wish  not  to  be  in  my  heart  at  last, 

When  I  shall  fall  asleep  to  wake  no  more. 

Then  leave,  oh  leave  me !  though  I  see  the  light 
Of  heaven's  sweet  clime,  and  hear  the  angel's  call, 

Where  there  is  never  any  cloud  nor  night, 
Thy  love  is  stronger,  mightier  than  all ! 


LILY  LEE. 

I  did  love  thee,  Lily  Lee, 
As  the  petrel  loves  the  sea, 
As  the  wild  bee  loves  the  thyme, 
As  the  poet  loves  his  rhyme, 
As  the  blossom  loves  the  dew — 
But  the  angels  loved  thee,  too ! 

Once  when  twilight's  dying  head 
Pressed  her  saffron-sheeted  bed, 
And  the  silent  stars  drew  near, 
White  and  tremulous  with  fear, 
"While  the  night  with  sullen  frown 
Strangled  the  young  zephyr  down, 
Told  I  all  my  love  to  thee, 
Hoping,  fearing,  Lily  Lee. 

Fluttered  then  her  gentle  breast 
With  a  troubled,  sweet  unrest, 
Like  a  bird  too  near  the  net 
Which  the  fowler's  hand  hath  set; 
But  her  mournful  eyes  the  while, 
And  her  spirit-speaking  smile, 
Told  me  love  could  not  dispart 
Death's  pale  arrow  from  her  heart 

143 


144  LILY     LEE. 

Hushing  from  that  very  day 
Passion  pleading  to  have  way — 
Folding  close  her  little  hand, 
Watched  I  with  her,  till  the  sand, 
Crumbling  from  beneath  her  tread, 
Lowered  her  softly  to  the  dead, 
Where  in  peace  she  waits  for  me — 
Sweetest,  dearest  Lily  Lee. 

As  the  chased  hart  loves  the  wave, 
As  blind  silence  loves  the  grave, 
As  the  penitent  loves  prayer, 
As  pale  passion  loves  despair, 
Loved  I,  and  still  love  I  thee, 
Angel-stolen  Lily  Lee. 


TO  THE  EVENING  ZEPHYR. 

1  sit  where  the  wild  bee  is  humming, 
And  listen  in  vain  for  your  song ; 

I  've  waited  before  for  your  coming, 
But  never,  oh  !  never  so  long. 

How  oft,  with  the  blue  sky  above  us, 
And  waves  breaking  light  on  the  shore, 

You,  knowing  they  would  not  reprove  us, 
Have  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er  ! 

So  sweet  were  your  dewy  embraces, 
Your  falsehood,  oh !  who  could  believe ! 

Some  phantom  your  fondness  effaces — 
You  could  not  have  aimed  to  deceive. 

You  told  not  your  love  for  me  ever, 
But  all  the  bright  stars  in  the  skies, 

Though  striving  to  do  so  could  never, 
Have  numbered  one  half  of  your  sighs. 

Alone  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

Still  waiting,  sweet  Zephyr,  for  you, 

I  look  for  the  waves  of  the  meadows. 

And  the  phantoms  that  trail  o'er  the  blue 
7  145 


146  TO     THE     EVENING     ZEPHVR. 

The  blossoms  that  waited  to  greet  me 
With  heat  of  the  noontide  opprest, 

Now  flutter  so  lightly  to  meet  me, 

You  're  coming,  I  know,  from  the  West. 

Alas!  if  you  find  me  thus  pouting, 
'T  is  only  my  love  that  alarms ; 

Forgive,  then,  I  pray  you,  my  doubting, 
And  take  me  once  more  to  your  arms ! 


MIRACLES. 

An  old  man  sits  beside  a  wall, 
Where  grow  two  hollyhocks — one  tall 
And  flowerless,  one  bright  and  small. 

His  hair  is  full  of  silver  streaks, 

The  tears  are  running  down  his  cheeks, 

And  his  lip  trembles  as  he  speaks. 

"  Come,  little  daughter  Maud,  I  pray, 
And  tell  me  truly  why  you  stay 
So  often  and  so  long  away." 

A  moment,  and  two  arms,  so  fair, 
Are  round  his  neck — a  sunny  pair 
Of  eyes  look  on  him — Maud  is  there. 

"  See,  pretty  dear,"  the  old  man  said, 
"  These  hollyhocks,  one  fresh  and  red 
With  youthful  bloom — the  other  dead. 

"  The  stony  wall  whereby  they  be, 
Js  the  hard  world,  and  you  '11  agree 
The  hollyhocks  are  you  and  me. 

147 


148  MIRACLES. 

"  My  weary,  worn  out  life  is  done, 
With  all  of  rain,  and  dew,  and  sun, 
Thine,  darling,  is  but  just  begun. 

"  So  take  my  staff  and  hang  it  high, 
And  kiss  me :  Nay,  you  must  not  cry, 
I  Ve  nothing  left  to  do  but  die  !" 

And  Maud  hath  made  her  blue  eyes  dry. 
And  in  a  whisper  makes  reply, 
"  And  if  you  die,  I  too  must  die !" 

That  night,  beside  the  stony  wall, 
Where  grew  two  hollyhocks — one  tall 
And  flowerless — one  bright  and  small — 

Covered  with  moonshine  they  were  found, 
Lying  dead  together  on  the  ground, 
Their  arms  about  each  other  wound. 

What  miracle  may  not  be  true, 
Since  oft  the  hardest  one  to  do 
Is  done — the  making  one  of  two  ] 


TOKENS. 

Truth,  with  her  calm  and  steady  eyes, 

Looked  sternly  in  my  face  one  morning, 
And  of  the  night,  that  closes  on 

Life's  worn  out  day,  I  saw  such  warning 
As  sunken  cheeks  and  gray  hairs  give, 

And  faint  smiles  fading  into  sorrow ; 
And  hiding  from  the  light  my  face, 

I  cried,  "  Oh  night,  that  knows  no  morrow ! 
Gather  your  solemn  clouds  away  ; 

And  leave  me  and  my  youth  together, 
And  make  its  joys  grow,  thick  and  bright 

As  apples  in  the  summer  weather." 
And  night  was  silent,  and  the  sea 

Was  silent,  and  the  eyes  of  heaven 
Shut  under  lid-like  clouds,  and  thus 

An  answer  to  my  prayer  was  given. 

I  in  a  vision  went,  and  saw 

From  the  low  grave,  asunder  breaking. 
A  face  of  beauty  smiling  like 

A  baby's  in  the  cradle  waking ; 
And  heard  a  voice  that  said  to  me 

Stay,  if  thou  wilt,  among  the  living; 

1  18 


150  TOKENS. 

But  earth  thy  ancient  mother  is, 

And  rest  is  only  of  her  giving. 
Plain  is  the  creed  of  nature's  bookx 

Daily  you  read  the  truthful  story 
That  when  the  day  is  dim  with  clouds 

The  twilight  has  the  most  of  glory. 
The  tassel  of  the  corn  must  fade — 

The  ear  will  grow  not  in  its  shadow, 
And  for  the  winter  snow  there  blooms 

So  much  the  brighter  harvest  meadow. 
So,  send  no  more  instead  of  praise 

Through  God's  good  purposes,  a  sighing, 
The  gray  hairs  and  the  fading  cheeks 

Are  tokens  of  the  glorifying." 


TO  THE  HOPEFUL. 

Hark  !  for  the  multitude  cry  out, 
Oh,  watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night ; 

And  hear  the  joyous  answering  shout, 
The  hills  are  red  with  light ! 

Lo!   where  the  followers  of  the  meek, 
Like  Johns,  are  crying  in  the  wild, 

The  leopard  lays  its  spotted  cheek 
Close  to  the  new-born  child. 

The  gallows-tree  with  tremor  thrills — 
The  North  to  mercy's  plea  inclines ; 

And  round  about  the  Southern  hills 
Maidens  are  planting  vines. 

The  star  that  trembled  softly  bright, 
Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay, 

Through  ages  of  unbroken  night 
Hath  tracked  his  luminous  way. 

From  the  dim  shadow  of  the  palm 

The  tattooed  islander  has  leant, 

Helping  to  swell  the  wondrous  psalm 

Of  love's  great  armament ! 

lol 


1 52  TO     THE      HOPEFUL. 

And  the  wild  Arab,  swart  and  grave, 
Looks  startled  from  his  tent,  and  scans 

Advancing  truth,  with  shining  wave, 
Washing  the  desert  sand$. 

Forth  from  the  slaver's  deadly  crypt 
The  Ethiop  like  an  Athlete  springs, 

And  from  her  long-worn  fetters  stript, 
The  dark  Liberian  sings. 

But  sorrow  to  and  fro  must  keep 
Its  heavings  until  evil  cease, 

Like  the  great  cradle  of  the  deep, 
Rocking  a  storm  to  peace. 


GOING  TO  SLEEP. 

Now  put  the  waxen  candle  by, 

Or  shade  the  light  away, 
And  tell  me  if  you  think  she'll  die 

Before  another  day. 
She  asked  me  but  an  hour  ago, 

What  time  the  moon  would  rise, 
And  when  I  told  her,  she  replied, 

"  How  fair  'twill  make  the  skies." 
Then  came  a  smile  across  her  face, 

And  though  her  lips  were  dumb 
I  think  she  only  wished  to  live 

Until  that  hour  were  come. 
And  folding  her  transparent  hands 

Together  on  her  breast, 
She  fell  in  such  a  tranquil  sleep 

As  scarce  seems  breathing  rest. 

Was  that  the  third  stroke  of  the  clock  ; 

The  hour  is  almost  told. — 
Above  yon  bare  and  jagged  rock 

Should  shine  the  disk  of  gold. 

1*  153 


154  GOING     TO     SLEEP. 

The  moon  is  coming  up — a  glow 

Runs  faint  along  the  blue 
How  soft  her  sleep  is  !  shall  I  call, 

That  she  may  see  it  too  1 
Nay,  friend,  she  would  not  see  the  light, 

Though  called  you  ne'er  so  loud. 
So  bring  of  linen,  dainty  white, 

The  measure  of  the  shroud. 
The  drowsy  sexton  may  not  wake, 

He  must  be  called  betimes, 
'T  will  take  him  all  the  day  to  make 

Her  grave  beneath  the  limes : 
For  when  our  little  Ellie  died, 

The  days  were,  oh,  so  long  ! 
And  what  with  telling  ghostly  tales, 

And  humming  scraps  of  song, 
To  school-boys  gathered  curiously 

About  the  bed  so  chill, 
I  heard  him  digging  till  the  sun 

Was  down  behind  the  lull. 

Oh,  do  not  weep  my  friend,  I  pray, 

This  rest  so  still  and  deep 
Keeps  all  the  evil  things  away 

That  troubled  once  her  sleep. 


THE  DYING  MOTHER. 

We  were  weeping  round  her  pillow, 
For  we  knew  that  she  must  die: 

It  was  night  within  our  bosoms- 
It  was  night  within  the  sky. 

There  were  seven  of  us  children — 

I  the  oldest  one  of  all ; 
So  I  tried  to  whisper  comfort, 

But  the  blinding  tears  would  fall. 

On  my  knee  my  little  brother 

Leaned  his  aching  brow  and  wept, 

And  my  sister's  long  black  tresses 
O'er  my  heaving  bosom  swept. 

The  shadow  of  an  awful  fear 

Came  o'er  me  as  I  trod, 
To  lay  the  burden  of  our  grief 

Before  the  throne  of  God. 

Oh !  be  kind  to  one  another, 

Was  my  mother's  pleading  prayer, 

A-  her  hand  lay  like  a  snow-flake 
On  the  baby's  golden  hair. 

155 


156  THE     DYING      MOTHER. 

Then  a  glory  bound  her  forehead, 
Like  the  glory  of  a  crown, 

And  in  the  silent  sea  of  death 
The  star  of  life  went  down. 

Her  latest  breath  was  borne  away 
Upon  that  loving  prayer, 

And  the  hand  grew  heavier,  paler, 
In  the  baby's  golden  hair. 


THE  LULLABY. 

I  hear  the  curlew's  lonesome  call, 
The  cushat  crooning  in  the  tree — 

The  sunset  shadow  on  the  wall 

Fades  slowly  off — come  nearer  me. 

Sweet  Mary,  come  and  take  my  hand 
And  hold  it  close  and  kiss  my  cheek — 

The  tide  is  crawling  up  the  sand — 
O,  Mary,  sweetest  sister,  speak. 

And  say  my  fears  are  all  untrue, 

And  say  my  heart  has  boded  wrong — 

How  slow  the  light  fades — never  grew 
A  twilight  half  nor  half  so  long. 

And  Mary  smiling  a  sad  smile, 
Looked  wistful  out  into  the  night, 

Combing  the  sick  girl's  hair  the  while, 

(Death-dampened)  with  her  fingers  white. 

And  still  the  curlew's  lonesome  call 
Went  on — the  cushat  wildly  well, 

Crooned  in  the  tree,  and  on  the  wall 
Darker  and  darker  shadows  fell. 

157 


158  THE     LULLABY. 

How  gustily  the  night-time  falls ! 

Dear  Mary,  is  the  milking  past  1 
And  are  the  oxen  in  their  stalls — 

Hark !  is 't  the  rain  that  falls  so  fast  1 

Kneel  softly  down  beside  my  bed — 
(How  terrible  the  storm  will  be,) 

And  say  again  the  prayer  you  said 
Last  night ;  but  Mary,  not  for  me. 

The  cushat  still  went  crooning  on — 
The  curlew  made  her  lonesome  cry — 

The  sick  girl  fast  asleep  was  gone — 
That  prayer  had  been  her  lullaby. 


ALDA. 

You  would  have  loved  her,  had  you  seen 

The  beauty  of  her  life  was  prayer — 
The  blue  sky  never  wet  with  showers 
A  bed  of  yellow  primrose  flowers 
As  pretty  as  the  lovely  sheen 
Of  her  loose  hair. 

O'er  the  low  easement  her  soft  hands 

Twined  tenderly  the  creeping  vines  ; 
Out  in  the  woodland's  shady  glooms 
Loved  she  to  gather  summer  blooms, 
And  where  from  yonder  valley  lands 
The  river  shines. 

The  rain  was  falling  when  she  died, 

The  sky  was  dismal  with  its  gloom, 
And  autumn's  melancholy  blight 
Shook  down  the  yellow  leaves  that  nightk 
And  mournfully  the  low  winds  sighed 
About  her  tomb. 

At  midnight  near  the  gray  old  towers 
That  rise  in  lordly  pride  so  high, 

159 


1G0  ALDA. 

Was  heard  the  dismal  raven's  croak, 
From  the  red  shadows  of  the  oak, 
And  with  her  pale  arms  full  of  flowers, 
The  dead  went  by. 

An  old  man  now,  with  thin  white  hair, 

Oft  counts  his  beads  beneath  that  tree ; 
Sometimes  when  glows  the  noontide  bright, 
And  sometimes  in  the  lonesome  night, 
He  breathes  the  dead  girl's  name  in  prayer 
On  bended  knee. 

A  shepherd  boy — so  runs  the  tale — 

Once,  as  he  pent  his  harmless  flocks, 
Crossed  the  sweet  maid,  her  lap  all  full 
Of  lilies  pied,  and  cowslips  dull, 
Weaving  up  fillets,  red  and  pale, 
For  her  long  locks. 

Sweetly  the  eve-star  lit  the  towers, 

When,  homeward  riding  from  the  chase, 
Down  from  his  coal-black  steed  there  leapt 
A  courtier  gay,  whose  dark  plumes  swept 
A  cloud  of  ringlets  bound  with  flowers, 
And  love-lit  face. 

Summer  is  gone — the  casement  low, 

With  dead  vines  darkened — winds  are  loud  ; 
Alda,  no  mone  the  gay  old  towers 
Shut  from  thee  heaven's  sweet  border  flowers ! 
Comb  back  the  locks  of  golden  glow, 
And  bring  the  shroud. 


GLENLY  MOOR. 

The  summer's  golden  glow  was  fled, 
In  eve's  dim  arms  the  day  lay  dead, 
Over  the  dreary  woodland  wild, 
The  first  pale  star  looked  out  and  smiled 
On  Glenly  Moor. 

Nor  lonely  call  of  lingering  bird, 
Nor  insect's  cheerful  hum  was  heard, 
Nor  traveller  in  the  closing  day 
Humming  along  the  grass-grown  way 
Of  Glenly  Moor. 

N       oice  was  in  the  sleepy  rills, 
No  light  shone  down  the  village  hills. 
And  withered  on  their  blackening  stalks 
Hung  the  last  flowers  along  the  walks 
Of  Glenly  Moor.. 

Within  a  thin,  cold  drift  of  light 
The  buds  of  the  wild  rose  hung  bright, 
Where  broken  turf  and  new-set  stone 
Told  of  a  pale  one  left  alone 
In  Glenly  Moor. 

161 


1C2  GLENLY     MOOR. 

All  the  clear  splendor  of  the  skies 
Was  gathered  from  her  meek  blue  eyes, 
And  therefore  shadows  dark  and  cold 
Hang  over  valley,  hill,  and  wold 
In  Glenly  Moor. 

And  the  winged  morning  from  the  blue 
Winnowing  the  crimson  on  the  dew 
May  ne'er  unlock  the  hands  so  white 
That  lie  beneath  that  drift  of  light 
In  Glenly  Moor. 


ROSEMARY  HILL. 

'Twas  the  night  he  had  promised  to  meet  me, 

To  meet  me  on  Rosemary  Hill, 
And  I  said,  at  the  rise  of  the  eve-star, 

The  tryst  he  will  haste  to  fulfil. 

Then  I  looked  to  the  elm-bordered  valley, 
Where  the  undulous  mist  whitely  lay, 

But  I  saw  not  the  steps  of  my  lover 
Dividing  its  beauty  away. 

The  eve-star  rose  red  o'er  the  tree-tops, 
The  night-dews  fell  heavy  and  chill, 

And  wings  ceased  to  beat  through  the  shadows- 
The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

I  heard  not,  through  hojoing  and  fearing, 

The  whip-poor-will's  musical  cry, 
Nor  saw  I  the  pale  constellations 

That  lit    the    blue    reach  of  the 


164  ROSEMARY     HILL. 

But  fronting  despair  like  a  martyr, 
I  pled  with  my  heart  to  be  still, 

As  round  me  fell,  deeper  and  darker, 
The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

On  a  bough  that  was  withered  and  dying. 

I  leaned  as  the  midnight  grew  dumb, 
And  told  my  heart,  over  and  over, 

How  often  he  said  he  would  come. 

He  is  hunting,  I  said,  in  dim  Arnau — 

He  was  there  with  his  dogs  all  day  long — 

And  is  weary  with  winging  the  plover, 
Or  stayed  by  the  throstle's  sweet  song. 

Then  heard  I  the  whining  of  Eld  rich, 
Of  Eldrich  so  blind  and  so  old, 

With  sleek  hide  embrowned  like  the  lion's, 
And  brindled  and  freckled  with  gold. 

How  the  pulse  of  despair  in  my  bosom 

Leapt  back  to  a  joyous  thrill, 
As  I  went  down  to  meet  my  dear  lover, 

Down  fleetly  from  Rosemary  Hill. 

More  near  seemed  the  whining  of  Eldrich, 
More  loudly  my  glad  bosom  beat; 

When  lo !  I  beheld  by  the  moonlight, 
A  newly  made  grave  at  my  feet. 

And  when  with  the  passion-vine  lovely, 
That  grew  by  the  stone  at  the  head, 

The  length  of  the  grave  I  had  measured, 
I  knew  that  my  lover  was  dead. 


MY  BROTHER. 

The  beech-wood  fire  is  burning  bright 

'T  is  wild  November  weather — 
Like  that  of  many  a  stormy  night 

We  Ve  sat  and  talked  together. 

Such  pretty  plans  for  future  years 

We  told  to  one  another — 
I  cannot  choose  but  ask  with  tears. 

Where  are  they  now,  my  brother  1 

Where  are  they  now,  the  dreams  we  dreamed, 

That  scattered  sunshine  o'er  us, 
And  where  the  hills  of  flowers  that  seemed 

A  little  way  before  us  1 

The  hills  with  golden  tops,  and  springs, 
Than  which  no  springs  were  clearer  I 

Ah  me,  for  all  our  journey  ings 
They  are  not  any  nearer  ! 

One,  last  year,  who  with  sunny  eyes 
A  watch  with  me  was  keeping, 
ne  :  across  the  next  hill  lies 
The  snow  upon  her  sleeping. 

165 


166  MY     BROTHER. 

Arid  so  alone,  night  after  night, 

I  keep  the  fire  a-burning, 
And  trim  and  make  the  candle  bright, 

And  watch  for  your  returning. 

The  clock  ticks  slow,  the  cricket  tame 
Is  on  the  hearth-stone  crying, 

And  the  old  Bible  just  the  same 
Is  on  the  table  lying. 

The  watch-dog  whines  beside  the  door, 
My  hands  forget  the  knitting — 

Oh,  shall  we  ever  any  more 
Together  here  be  sitting  ! 

Sometimes  I  wish  the  winds  would  sink, 
The  cricket  hush  its  humming, 

The  while  I  listened,  for  I  think 
I  hear  a  footstep  coming, 

Just  as  it  used  so  long  ago  ; 

My  cry  of  joy  I  smother — 
'T  is  only  fancy  cheats  me  so. 

And  never  thou,  my  brother  ! 


NELLIE,  WATCHING. 


You  might  see  the  river  shore 
From  the  shady  cottage  door 
Where  she  sat,  a  maiden  mild — 
Not  a  woman,  not  a  child  ; 
But  the  grace  which  heaven  confers 
On  the  two,  I  trow  was  hers : 
Dimpled  cheek,  and  laughing  eves, 
Blue  as  bluest  summer  skies, 
And  the  snowy  fall  and  rise 
Of  a  bosom,  stirred,  I  weet, 
By  some  thought  as  dewy  sweet 
As  the  red  ripe  strawberries, 
Which  the  morning  mower  sees  ; 
Locks  so  long  and  brown  (half  down 
From  the  modest  wild-flower  crown 
That  she  made  an  hour  ago, 
Saving,  "  I  will  wear  it,  though 
None  will  praise  it,  that  I  know !") 
Twined  she  round  her  fingers  white- 
Sitting  careless  in  the  light, 
Sweetly  mixed  of  day  and  night — 
Twined  she,  peeping  sly  the  while 
Down  the  valley,  like  an  aisle, 

107 


168  NELLIE    WATCHING. 

Sloping  to  the  river-side. 
Blue  eyes  !  wherefore  ope  so  wide  ? 
They  are  fishers  on  the  shore 
That  you  look  on — nothing  more. 

Pettishly  she  pouts — ah  me ! 
Saucy  Nellie,  you  will  see 
Ere  an  hour  has  fled  away, 
Little  recks  it  what  you  say — 
That  those  eyes  with  anger  frowning 
Darkly,  will  be  near  to  drowning, 
And  the  lips  repeating  so 
Oft  and  proudly  "  Let  him  go  !" 
Will  be  sighing. 

Ah,  I  know ! 
I  have  watched  as  you  have  done 
This  fair  twilight,  pretty  one, 
Watched  in  trembling  hope,  and  know 
Spite  of  all  your  frowning  so, 
That  the  wave  of  sorrow,  flowing 
In  your  heart,  will  soon  be  showing 
•  In  the  cheek,  now  brightly  blushing. — 
Hark !  't  is  but  the  wild  birds  hushing 
To  their  nests — and  not  a  lover 
Brushing  through  the  valley  clover  ! 

Purple  as  the  morning-glories 

Round  her  head  the  shadows  fall ; 

Is  she  thinking  of  sad  stories, 

That,  when  wild  winds  shriek  and  call, 


NELLIE    WATCHING. 

And  the  snow  comes,  good  old  folks, 
Sitting  by  the  fire  together, 

Tell,  until  the  midnight  cocks 
Shrilly  crow  from  hill  to  hill — 
Stories,  not  befitting  ill 

Wintry  nights  and  windy  weather  ? 

The  small  foot  that  late  was  tapping 
On  the  floor,  has  ceased  its  rapping, 
And  the  blue  eyes  opened  wide. 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  pride, 
Now  are  closed  as  in  despair, 
And  the  flowers  that  she  would  wear 
Whether  they  were  praised  or  no, 
On  the  ground  are  lying  low. 

Foolish  Nellie,  see  the  moon, 
Eound  and  red,  and  think  that  June 

Will  be  here  another  day, 
And  the  apple-boughs  will  gro\s- 
Prighter  than  a  month  ago  : 

Beauty  dies  not  with  the  May  ! 
And  beneath  the  hedgerow  1. 
All  the  softly-falling  eves, 
When  the  yellow  bees  are  humming 
And  the  blue  and  black  birds  coining 
In  at  will,  we  two  shall  walk, 
Making  out  of  -  talk 

Quiet  pastime. 

Nellie  -aid, 


1G9 


1  70  NELLIE    WATCHING. 

"  Those  fine  eves  I  shall  be  dead, 
For  I  cannot  live  and  see 
Him  I  love  so,  false  to  me, 
And  till  now  I  never  staid 
"Watching  vainly  in  the  shade." 

"  In  good  sooth,  you  are  betrayed  ! 

For  I  heard  you,  careless,  saying, 
'  T  is  not  /  for  love  that  pine,' 

And  I  've  been  a  long  hour  staying 
In  the  shadow  of  the  vine  !" 

So  a  laughing  voice,  but  tender, 
Said  to  Nellie  :   quick  the  splendor 

Of  the  full  moon  seemed  to  fade, 
For  the  smiling  and  the  blushing 

Filling  all  the  evening  shade. 
It  was  not  the  wild  birds  hushing 

To  their  nests  an  hour  ago, 
But  in  verity  a  lover 
Brushing  through  the  valley-clover. 

Would  all  watches  maidens  keep, 
When  they  sit  alone  and  weep 
For  their  heart-aches,  ended  so  ! 


ROSALIE. 

From  the  rough  bark  green  buds  were  breaking ; 
The  birds  chirped  gaily  for  the  taking 

Of  summer  mates;  April  was  trilling, 
Like  a  young  psaltress,  to  the  wind, 
That  stopt  from  dancing  to  unbind 
The  primrose  ;  for  the  thawing  weather 
The  runnels  brimmed.     We  were  together — 

I  singing  out  aloud,  she  stilling 
Her  hurried  heart-beats.     While,  that  day, 

Idly  I  hummed  the  poet's  rhyming, 
Her  thoughts  were  all  another  way, 

Where  the  white  flower  of  love  was  climbing 
Through  sunshine  of  sweet  eyes — not  mine  ! 

We  were  divided  by  that  light: 
The  self-same  minute  we  might  twine 

Our  distaffs  with  new  flax — at  night 
Put  by  our  wheels  at  once  ;  the  gloaming 
Fall   just  the  same  upon  the  combing 
And  braiding  of  our  hair — in  vain  ! 
Our  hearts  were  never  one  again. 

H.-neath  the  barn-roof,  thick  with  moss, 
Bumbled  the  fanrnill  ;  uncomplaining, 

171 


172  ROSALIE. 

The  oxen  from  its  golden  raining 
(One  milky-white,  the  other  dun) 

"Went  the  long  day  to  plow  across 
The  stubble,  slantwise  from  the  sun. 

The  yellow  mist  was  on  the  thorns, 
And  here  and  there  a  fork  of  flowers 
Shone  whiter  than,  athwart  the  showers 

Of  winnowed  chaff,  the  heifer's  horns. 
And  while  the  springtime  came  and  went 

With  showery  clouds  and  sunny  gleaming, 

We  were  together  :  she  a-dreaming, 
I  scarcely  happy,  yet  content. 

Alone  beside  the  southern  wall 

I  digged  the  earth  ;  the  summer  flowers 
In  pleasant  times,  betwixt  the  showers, 

I  sadly  planted,  one  and  all ; 

And  when  they  made  a  crimson  blind 
Before  the  window,  with  their  bloom, 
I  spun  alone  within  the  room — 

Right  hardly  did  the  wisps  unbind, 

So  wet  they  were  with  tears.     Ah,  me  ! 

Blithe  songs  they  said  the  winds  were  blowing 

From  where  the  harvesters  were  mowing — 
I  only  cared  for  Rosalie. 

'Twas  autumn;  gray  with  twilight's  hue, 
The  embers  of  the  day  were  lying ; 
Athwart  the  dusk  the  bat  was  flying, 

And  insects  made  their  faint  ado. 


ROSALIE.  173 

So  evening  sloped  into  the  night, 
And  all  the  black  tops  of  the  furs 
Shone  as  with  golden,  prickly  burrs, 

So  small  the  stars  were,  and  so  bright. 

Close  by  the  homestead,  old  and  low, 
A  gnarled  and  knotty  oak  was  growing, 
And  shadows  of  red  leaves  were  blowing 

Across  the  coverlid  of  snow. 


Awake,  sweet  Rosalie,  I  said, 

The  moon's  pale  fires  run  harmlessly 
Down  the  dry  holts — awake  and  see  ! 

She  did  not  turn  her  in  the  bed. 

My  heart,  I  thought,  must  fall  abreaking : 
All — all  but  one  wild  wish — was  past : 

For  that  white  sunken  mouth,  once  speaking, 
To  say  she  loved  me,  at  the  last ! 

Two  comforts  yet  were  mine  to  keep  : 
Betwixt  her  and  her  faithless  lover 
Bright  grass  would  spread  a  flowery  cover  ; 

And  Rosalie  was  well  asleep. 


JUSTIFIED. 

Come  up,  my  heart,  come  from  thy  hiding-place 
Stern  Memory  grows  importunate  to  make 
Hard  accusation  ;  and  if  that  I  be 
Not  grossly  misadvised,  thou  'rt  much  to  blame. 

Was  't  thou,  that  on  a  certain  April  night, 
When  sweetnesses  were  breaking  all  the  buds, 
And  the  red  creeping  vines  of  strawberries 
Hung  out  their  dainty  blossoms  toward  the  sun- 
When  first  the  dandelion  from  his  cell 
Came,  like  a  miser  dragging  up  his  gold, 
And  making  envious  the  poor  traveler, 
And  the  wild  brook — thou  wottest  how  it  ran, 
Betwixt  the  stubbly  oat-field  and  the  slope 
Where,  free  from  needlss  shepherding,  that  night 
The  sheep  went  cropping  thistle  leaves,  and  I 
For  the  soft  tinkling  of  their  silver  bells 
Staid  listening,  so  I  said,  and  said  again, 
To  be  unto  my  conscience  justified — 
Was  't  thou  that  tempted  me  to  let  the  dew 
Of  midnight  straiten  all  my  pretty  curls, 
And  wroo  the  bat-like  clinging  damps  to  come 
And  bleach  the  morning  blushes  from  my  cheeks? 
Ah,  me  !  how  many  years  since  that  same  night 
174 


JUSTIFIED.  1 75 

Have  come  and  gone,  nor  brought  a  fellow  to  it ! 

Thou  need'st  not  shake  so,  guilty  prisoner, 

For  though  those  white  hairs  round  my  forehead  teach 

A  judgment  cold  and  passionless,  and  though 

The  hand  that  writes  is  palsy-touched,  withal, 

I  cannot  wrong  so  deeply,  grievously, 

The  glorifying  beauty  of  the  world, 

declare  that  thou  art  all  condemned  ! 
5  et  stay,  I  pray  thee:  make  some  sweet  excuse 
To  that  staid  saintly  dame,  Austerity  ; 
For  she  and  I  have  been  a  thousand  times 
At  variance  about  her  sober  rule. 
Once  when  I  left  my  gleaning  in  the  wheat, 
(The  time  was  June,  sunset  within  an  hour,) 
And  underneath  a  hedge,  that  rained  down  flowers 
Of  hawthorn  and  wild  roses  in  my  lap, 
Sat  idling  with  young  Jocelyn,  till  that 
The  shadows  of  the  mowers,  stretching  out 
Like  threatening  ghosts,  did  cut  our  pastime  off, 
She  rated  me  so  mercilessly  hard 
That  I  was  fain  with  fables  to  make  peace. 
1  said  that  I  was  tired,  and  that  a  bird, 
Soft-singing  In  the  hedge,  drew  me  that  way  ; 
And  then  I  said  I  looked  for  catydids, 
(It  was  three  months  before  their  chirping  time.) 
And  that  't  was  pleasant  to  look  thence  and  see 
The  sunshine  topping  all  the  wide-leaved  corn, 
And  the  young  apples  on  the  orchard  boughs 
With  the  betraying  red  upon  their  cheeks. 
What  other  most  improbable  conceits 


176  JUSTIFIED. 

I  told  to  her,  I  now  remember  not  ; 

But  I  remember  that  her  frowning  brows 

So  chid  me  to  confusion  that  I  said 

It  was  not  Jocelyn  that  kept  me  there  ! 

She  smiled,  and  we  since  then  are  enemies. 

Silent  *?  thou  hast  no  eloquence  to  win 

Her  cold  regard  upon  my  waywardness. 

Well,  be  it  so  !  and  though  the  great  wide  world 

Stare  blank  that  I  do  soften  judgment  so, 

Thou  stand'st  acquitted,  yea,  and  justified. 


ISADORE'S   DREAM. 

I  wandered  in  a  visionary  field  : 

Lilacs  were  purpling  out,  the  ousel,  fleet, 
Plunged  in  the  rainy  brook ;  the  air  was  sweet 

With  sprouting  beech  buds  ;  and  the  full  moon  sealed 
The  red-leaved  book  of  evening  with  pure  white  ; 
The  golden  falling  of  a  bridal  night 
•  scarcely  to  a  lover's  eyes  so  fair — 

And  yet  my  thoughts  clung,  bat-like,  to  despair. 

I  would  not  see  the  green  and  pleasant  grass, 

But  willows  dim  and  cypresses  instead  ; 
I  said  they  made  me  sad,  and  sighed,  Alas  ! 

And  said,  Another  year  I  should  be  dead, 
And  rest  from  labor  and  be  done  with  care — 

That  the  May  moon  would  wrap  my  grave  with  light ; 

And  picking  in  my  lap  the  daisies  white, 
I  braided  such  a  crown  as  corpses  wear. 

Walking  the  visionary  meadow  o'er, 

My  wreath  upon  my  arm,  and  sighing  so, 
And  praying  to  be  dead,  the  day-break  snow 

Blushed  red  as  any  rose  :  Come,  Isadore — 
8*  177 


178 


ISADOKE     S     DREAM 


Iii  the  dim  rainy  East  an  hour  agone 
The  sun  was  travelling  ;  wake,  I  pray  thee,  sweet ! 
One  kiss  before  we  part,  perhaps  to  meet 

Next  in  eternity."     My  dream  went  on 
The  same  sad  way  when  I  was  wide  awake, 

And  still  through  all  the  days  and  nights  I  sigh, 

And  try  to  make  my  heart  believe  that  I 
Am  grieved  for  anything  but  love's  sweet  sake. 


BURNS.1 

He  died :  he  went  from  all  the  praise 

That  fell  on  ears  unheeding, 
And  scarcely  can  we  read  his  lays 

For  pauses  in  the  reading, 
To  mourn  the  buds  of  poesy, 

That  never  came  to  blushing ; 
For  who  can  choose  but  sigh,  ah  me ! 

For  their  untimely  crushing! 

And  when  we  see,  o'er  ruins  dim, 

The  summer  roses  climbing, 
We  sadly  pause,  and  think  of  him, 

The  beauty  of  whose  rhyming 
Spread  sunshine  o'er  the  darkest  ill, — 

Alas  !  it  could  not  cover 
The  heart  from  breaking,  that  was  still 

Through  all  despairs  a  lover — 

A  lover  of  the  beautiful, 

In  nature's  sweet  evangels  ; 
For  his  great  heart  was  worshipful, 

For  men,  and  for  the  angels. 

v  Written  on  reading  in  the  Letters  of  Burns  "  We  have  no    flour  in  th« 
hou*e,  and  must  borruw  for  a  few  days." 

179 


180  BURNS. 

The  rank  with  him  was  not  the  man, 
He  knew  no  servile  bowing ; 

And  wee  things  o'er  the  furrow  ran 
Unharmed  beside  his  plowing. 

Lights  flowing  out  of  palaces 

Dimmed  not  the  candles  burning, 
Whereby  the  glorious  mysteries 

Of  music  he  was  learning  ; 
And  not  with  envious  looks  he  eyed 

The  morning  larks  upgoing, 
From  meadows  that  were  all  too  wide 

And  green  for  peasant  mowing. 

For  by  his  cabin  door  the  grass 

Was  pleasant  with  the  daisies ; 
And  o'er  the  brae,  some  bonny  lass 

Was  happy  in  his  praises. 
Oh  Thou  who  hear'st  my  simple  strain, 

The  while  I  muse  his  story — 
Here  knew  he  all  a  poet's  pain, 

Grant  now  he  have  the  glory  ! 


THE  EMIGRANTS. 

Don't  you  remember  how  oft  you  have  said, 

Darling  Coralin  May, 
"  When  the  hawthorns  are  blossoming  we  shall  wed, 

And  then  to  the  prairie  away  !  " 
And  now,  all  over  the  hills  they  peep, 

Milk  white,  out  of  the  spray, 
And  sadly  you  turn  to  the  past  and  weep, 

Darling  Coralin  May. 

When  the  cricket  chirped  in  the  hickory  blaze, 

You  cheerily  sung,  you  know, — 
"  Oh  for  the  sunnier  summer  days, 

And  the  time  when  we  shall  go  !" 
The  corn-blades  now  are  unfolding  bright, 

While  busily  calls  the  crow; 
And  clovers  are  opening  red  and  white, 

And  the  time  has  come  to  go — 

To  go  to  the  cabin  our  love  has  planned, 

On  the  prairie  green  and  gay, 
In  the  blushing  light  of  the  sunset  land, 

Darling  Coralin  May. 

181 


182  THE     EMIGRANTS. 

li  How  happy  our  lives  will  be,"  you  said, — 

Do  n't  you  remember  the  day  1 — 
"  When  our  hands  shall  be,  as  our  hearts  are,  wed  !  " 

Darling  Coralin  May. 

"How  sweet,"  you  said,  "  when  my  work  is  o'er, 

And  your  axe  yet  ringing  clear, 
To  sit  and  watch  at  the  lowly  door 

Of  our  home  in  the  prairie,  dear." 
The  rose  is  ripe  by  the  window  now, 

And  the  cool  spring  flowing  near  ; 
But  shadows  fall  on  the  heart  and  brow 

From  the  home  we  are  leaving  here. 


RINALDO. 

A  fisherman's  children,  we  dwelt  by  the  sea. 
My  good  little  brother  Rinaldo  and  me, 
Contented  and  happy  as  happy  could  be — 

Of  blossoms  no  other 
Was  fair  as  the  bright  one  that  bloomed  on  his  cheek, 
And  gentle — oh  never  a  lamb  was  so  meek — 
I  wish  he  were  living  and  heard  what  I  speak. 

My  lost  little  brother  ! 

One  night  when  our  father  was  out  on  the  sea, 

We  went  through  the  moonlight,  my  brother  and  me, 

And  watched  for  his  coming  beneath  an  old  tree, 

The  leaves  of  which  hooded 
A  raven  whose  sorrowful  croak  in  the  shade 
So  dismally  sounded,  it  made  us  afraid, 
And  kneeling  together  for  shelter  we  prayed 

From  the  evil  it  boded. 

At  the  school  on  the  hill,  not  a  week  from  that  day, 
The  thick  cloud  of  playing  broke  wildly  away, 
And  the  laughter  that  lately  went  ringing  so  gay 

Was  changed  to  a  crying, 
183 


184  RINALDO. 

And  leaping  the  ditches  and  climbing  the  wall, 
Twixt  home  and  the  schoolhouse  came  one  at  our  call, 
And  told  us  the  youngest  and  best  of  them  all, 
Rinaldo  was  dying. 

There  was  watching  and  weeping,  and  when  he  was  dead 
'Neath  that  tree  by  the  seaside  they  made  him  a  bed  ; 
A  stone  that  was  nameless  and  rude  at  his  head — 

His  feet  had  another ; 
And  the  schoolmaster  said,  though  we  laid  him  so  low, 
And  so  humbly  and  nameless,  we  surely  should  know 
For  his  beauty,  where  only  the  beautiful  go — 

My  good  little  brother. 


JULIET  TO  ROMEO. 

Nay,  sweet,  one  moment  more,  thy  lips,  mayhap, 
Will  soothe  this  heavy  aching  in  my  brows — 
Stay,  while  the  twilight  in  the  dusky  boughs 

Sits  smiling  with  the  moon  upon  her  lap. 

And  dost  thou  kiss  me  to  be  free  to  go  ? 
How  royally  the  purple  shadows  sway 
Across  the  gorgeous  chamber  of  dead  day  ; 

Now  pr'ythee,  stay,  while  they  are  shining  so. 

That  kiss  has  made  me  better — I  shall  be 
Quite  well  anon — nay  gentle  Romeo, 
I  hear  the  vesper-chanting,  soft  and  low — 

When  the  last  echo  dies  thou  shalt  be  free. 

Could  that  have  been  the  owlet's  cry  1  the  Light 
Is  scarcely  faded  from  the  hill-tops  yet, 
'T  is  not  a  half  hour  since  the  sun  was  set ; 

Wait  dear  one,  for  the  dim  concealing  night. 

The  bell  is  striking  ;  hark  !  't  is  only  nine, 
1  counted  truly,  love,  it  was  not  ten — 
Would  you  be  falsest  of  all  faithless  men, 

And  leave  me  in  the  lonely  night  to  pine  ? 

35 


186  JULIET     TO     ROMEO. 

I  hear  the  watch-dog  baying  at  the  moon, 
And  hear  the  noisy  cock  crow  loud  and  long- 
He  cannot  cheat  me  with  his  shrilly  song — 

I  know  the  midnight  has  not  come  so  soon. 

What  ruddy  streaks  are  running  up  the  sky — 
Is  that  the  lark  that  past  the  turret  flies ! 
Ah  me,  't  is  morning's  golden-lided  eyes 

Peeping  above  the  hills  ;  so,  sweet,  good-by  ! 


OF  HOME. 

My  heart  made  pictures  all  to-day 

Of  the  old  homestead  far  away. 

It  is  the  middle  of  the  May, 
And  the  moon  is  shining  full  and  bright  — 
The  middle  of  May,  and  the  middle  of  night. 

Darkly  against  the  southern  wall, 
Three  cherry-trees,  so  smooth  and  tall, 
Their  shadows  cast — we  planted  all, 

One  morning  in  March  that  is  long  gone  by,— 

My  brother  Carolan  and  I. 

I  hear  the  old  clock  tick  and  tick 
In  the  small  parlor,  see  the  thick 
Unfeathered  wings  of  bats,  that  stick 
To  moon-lit  windows,  see  the  mouse, 
Noiseless,  peering  about  the  house. 

I  'm  going  up  the  winding  stairs, 
I  'm  counting  all  the  vacant  chairs, 
And  sadly  saying,  "  They  were  theirs, — 
The  brothers  and  sisters  who  no  more 
Go  in  and  out  at  the  homestead  door." 

187 


188  OF     HOME. 

hear  my  sweet-voiced  mother  say, 
"  Leave,  children,  leave  all  work  to-day, 
And  go  into  the  fields  and  play." 
And  the  birds  are  singing  where'er  we  go — 
How  beautiful,  to  be  dreaming  so  ! 

And  yet,  while  I  am  dreaming  on, 
I  know  my  playmates  all  are  gone ; 
That  none  the  hope  of  our  childhood  keep, 
That  some  are  weary,  and  some  asleep, 
And  that  I  from  the  homestead  am  far  away 
This  middle  of  night,  in  the  middle  of  May. 


MY  FRIEND. 

Along  the  west  the  stormy  red 

Burned  blackest  gaps  afar  and  near; 
Across  the  coverlid  of  snow 
We  saw  the  shadows  come  and  go, 
But  no  one  to  his  neighbor  said 

His  saddest  fear. 

Peered  from  his  hole  the  bright-eyed  mouse, 
The  winds  were  blowing  wild  and  wide, 

Up  the  bleak  sand  the  tide  ran  white 

And  icy  as  the  full  moon's  light, 
And  in  his  lonesome  hollow  house 

The  brown  owl  cried. 

We  knew  her  pain,  and  care  were  o'er, 

We  knew  that  angels  led  the  way, 
Yet  wept,  and  could  not  choose  but  weep 
The  while  we  saw  her  go  to  sleep 
For  the  long  night  that  falls  before 
The  eternal  day. 

The  starlight  <_'limmering  faintly  through 
The  window,  shone  lyside  her  bed, 

189 


190  AFRIEND. 

But  ere  the  solemn  time  had  worn 
To  the  white  breaking  of  the  morn, 
It  faded  off.     Alas,  I  knew 

That  she  was  dead. 

I  put  my  hair  before  my  eyes, 

And  all  my  soul  to  sorrow  gave; 
My  only  comfort  was  to  know 
That  she  no  longer  saw  my  wo — 
All  heaven  was  gone  out  of  the  skies 
Into  the  grave. 

From  off  the  windy  threshing  floors 

The  dust  in  golden  flaws  was  blown, 
The  cock  crew  out,  flail  answered  flail, 
And  limbs  of  apples,  red  and  pale, 
Beside  the  open  cottage  doors, 

Together  shone. 

They  kissed  me,  saying  I  must  know 

How  sober  plenty  smiled  for  me, 
But  round  my  mortal  life  there  lay 
And  shall  do  till  my  dying  day, 
Thy  still  and  awful  shadow,  oh 
Eternity  ! 


THE  HANDMAID. 

Why  rests  a  shadow  on  her  woman's  heart  ? 

In  life's  more  girlish  hours  it  was  not  so ; 
111  hath  she  learned  to  hide  with  harmless  art 

The  soundings  of  the  plummet-line  of  wo  ! 

Oh,  what  a  world  of  tenderness  looks  through 
The  melting  sapphire  of  her  mournful  eyes  ! 

Less  softly  moist  are  violets  full  of  dew, 
And  the  delicious  color  of  the  skies. 

Serenely  amid  worship  doth  she  move, 
*     Counting  its  passionate  tenderness  as  dross; 
And  tempering  the  pleadings  of  earth's  love, 
In  the  still,  solemn  shadows  of  the  cross. 

It  is  not  that  her  heart  is  cold  or  vain, 

That  thus  she  moves  through  many  worshippers ; 
No  step  is  lighter  by  the  couch  of  pain, 

No  hand  on  fever's  brow  lies  soft  as  hers. 

From  the  loose  flowing  of  her  amber  hair 
The  summer  flowers  we  long  ago  unknit, 

As  something  between  joyance  and  despair 
Came  in  the  chamber  of  her  soul  to  sit. 

191 


1 02  THE    HANDMAID. 

In  her  white  cheek  the  crimson  burns  as  faint 

As  red  doth  in  some  cold  star's  chastened  beam ; 

The  tender  meekness  of  the  pitying  saint 
Lends  all  her  life  the  beauty  of  a  dream. 

Thus  doth  she  move  among  us  day  by  day, 
Loving  and  loved  ;  but  passion  cannot  move 

The  young  heart  that  has  wrapped  itself  away 
In  the  soft  mantle  of  a  Saviour's  love  ! 


PA11TIXG  AND  MEETING. 

Lfke  music  in  a  reed,  the  light 
Was  shut  up  in  the  dim,  wild  night ; 
And  'twixt  the  black  boughs  fell  the  snowing- 
The  black  March  boughs  together  blowing, 
Till  hill  and  valley  all  were  white 

The  windows  of  the  old  house  glowed 
With  the  dry  hickory,  burning  brightly, 
As  in  the  old  house  burned  it  nightly ; 
So  little  cared  they  that  it  snowed — 
The  two  my  rhyme  is  of.     If  tears 
Or  shadows  filled  the  eyes,  else  lit 
With  sunshine  it  were  best  unwrit, 
And  all  about  sweet  hopes  and  fears 
Were  best  unsaid,  too.     Tares  will  grow 
In  spite  of  the  most  careful  sowing  j 
We  find  them  in  the  time  of  mowing, 
Instead  of  flowers,  we  all  do  know. 

So  it  were  better  that  I  write 

whit  about  the  lady's  sighing  ; 
T  were  better  said  she  had  been  tying, 
To  make  it  pretty  for  the  night, 

^  193 


1 94  MEETING     AND     PARTING. 

Buds,  white  and  scarlet,  in  her  hair ; — 
And  that  the  ribbon  she  should  wear 
Had  sadly  vexed  her — not  a  hue. 
Purple  nor  carmine  that  would  do ; 

Or  that  the  cowslips  of  the  May, 
Her  little  hand  had  freely  given — 
Nay,  more,  the  sweetest  star  of  heavcn- 

To  gain  a  rose  the  more  that  day 
For  her  sad  cheek :  so  foolish  runs 

In  all  of  us  the  blood  of  youth 
Ere  wintry  frosts  or  summer  suns 

Bleach  fancy's  fabrics,  and  the  truth 
Of  sober  senses  turns  aside 
The  images  once  deified. 

It  was  a  time  of  parting  dread — 
For  middle  night  the  cock  was  crowing, 
The  black  March  boughs  together  blowing. 

The  lady  mourning  to  be  dead ; 
And  idly  pulling  down  the  flowers, 

Tied  prettily  about  her  hair — 

Alas  !  she  had  but  little  care 
For  any  bliss  of  future  hours ! 
That  parting  made  the  world  all  dim 

To  her,  which  ever  way  she  saw ; 
I  know  not  what  it  was  to  him — 

Haply  but  as  the  gusty  flaw 
That  went  before  the  buds — if  so, 
Hers  was  a  doubly  piteous  woe ! 


PARTING     AND     MEETING.  195 

And  years  are  gone,  or  fast  or  slow, 
And  many  a  love  has  had  its  making 
Since  these  two  parted,  at  the  breaking 

Of  daylight,  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Again  't  is  March  :  the  lady's  brows 

Are  circled  with  another  light 
Than  that  of  burning  hickory  boughs, 

Which  lit  the  house  that  parting  night. 
And  they  have  met :  the  eyes  so  sweet 

In  the  old  time  again  she  sees — 

Hears  the  same  voice — and  yet  for  these 
Her  heart  has  not  an  added  beat. 

If  there  be  tremblings  now,  or  sighs, 
They  are  not  hers  ;  she  feels  no  sorrow 
That  he  will  be  away  to-morrow, 

Nor  joy  that  bridal  mornings  rise 
Out  of  his  smiling — she  is  free  ! 

Oh,  give  her  pity,  give  her  tears ! 
By  one  great  wave  of  passion's  sea, 

Drifted  alike  from  hopes  and  fears. 


A  RUIN. 

A  silver  mist  the  valley  shrouds, 

The  summer  day  is  nearly  by  ; 
Like  pyramids  of  flowers,  the  clouds 

Are  floating  in  the  sunset  sky. 
Now  up  the  hills  the  white  mists  curl, 

The  dew  shines  in  the  vale  below, 
And  on  the  oak,  like  beads  of  pearl, 

The  white  buds  of  the  mistletoe. 
The  rustling  shadows,  dropt  with  gold, 

Among  the  boughs  of  green  and  white, 
Are  mingling  softly,  soon  to  fold 

In  their  embrace  the  fainting  light. 
"  Lone  one,  above  whose  solemn  brow 

The  oak  leaves  wave  so  green  and  slow, 
Night,  gloomy  night  is  darkening  now  : 

Sweet  friend,  arise  and  let  us  go." 

Lifting  his  head  a  little  up 

From  the  poor  pillow  where  it  lay, 
And  pushing  from  his  forehead  pale 

The  long,  damp  tresses  all  away — 

He  told  me  with  the  eager  haste 

Of  one  who  dare  not  trust  his  words, 
196 


A     RUIN.  197 

He  knew  a  mortal  with  a  voice 

As  low  and  lovely  as  a  bird's  ; 
But  that  he  saw  once  in  a  dell 

Away  from  them  a  weary  space, 
A  fragile  lily,  which  as  well 

Might  woo  that  old  oak's  green  embrace, 
As  for  his  heart  to  hope  that  she, 

Whose  palace  chambers  ne'er  grew  dim, 
Would  leave  the  light  in  which  she  moved 

To  wander  through  the  dark  with  him  ; 

For  that,  once  being  out  to  sow 

The  rows  of  poppies  in  the  corn, 
She  crossed  hirn,  and  he,  kneeling  low, 

Said,  "  Sweetest  lady  e'er  was  born, 
Have  pity  on  my  love ;"  but  quite 

Her  scornful  eyes  eclipsed  the  day ; 
And  passing,  all  the  hills  grew  bright, 

As  if  the  spring  had  gone  that  way. 
And  he,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did 

But  feeling  that  his  heart  was  broke, 
Fled  from  her  pitiless  glance,  and  hid 

In  the  cold  shadows  of  that  oak, 
Where,  as  he  said,  she  came  at  night, 

And  clasped  him  from  the  bitter  air, 
With  her  soft  arms  of  fairest  white, 

And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  hair. 
But  when  the  morning  lit  the  spray, 

And  hung  its  wreath  about  his  head, 
Tlie  lovely  lady  passed  away, 

Through  mists  of  glory  pale  and  red. 


198  A     RUIN. 

So  bitter  grew  his  heaving  sighs, 

So  mournful  dark  the  glance  he  raised  ; 
I  looked  upon  him  earnestly 

And  saw  the  gentle  boy  was  crazed. 
How  fair  he  was  !  it  made  me  sad, 

And  sadder  still  my  bosom  grew, 
To  think  no  earthly  hand  could  build 

That  beautiful  ruin  up  anew. 


THE  POET. 

Upon  a  bed  of  flowery  moss, 
With  moonbeams  falling  all  across 
Moonbeams  chilly  and  faint  and  dim, 
(Sweet  eyes  I  ween  do  watch  for  him) 
Lieth  his  starry  dreams  among, 
The  gentlest  poet  ever  sung. 

The  wood  is  thick — 't  is  late  in  night, 

Yet  feareth  he  no  evil  sprite, 

Nor  vexing  ghost — such  things  there  be 

In  many  a  poet's  destiny. 

Haply  some  wretched  fist  or  prayer, 

Pained  and  long,  hath  charmed  the  air. 

Softer  than  hymenial  hymns 

The  fountains,  bubbling  o'er  their"  rims, 

Wash  through  the  vernal  reeds,  and  fill 

The  hollows:  all  beside  is  still, 

Save  the  poet's  breathing,  low  and  liirht. 

Watch  no  more,  lady — no  more  to-night  !- 

Heavy  his  gold  locks  are  with  dew, 

Yet  by  the  pansies  mixed  with  rue 

199 


200  THE     POET. 

Bitter  and  rough,  but  now  that  fell 
From  his  shut  hand,  he  sleepeth  well. 
He  sleepeth  well,  and  his  dream  is  bright 
Under  the  moonbeams  chilly  and  white. 

The  night  is  dreary,  the  boy  is  fair — 
Hath  he  been  mated  with  Despair, 
Or  crossed  in  love,  that  he  lies  alone 
With  shadows  and  moonlight  overblown — 
Shadows  and  moonlight  chilly  and  dim? 
And  do  no  sweet  eyes  watch  for  him  1 

Nay,  rather  is  his  soul  instead 

With  immortal  thirst  disquieted, 

That  oft  like  an  echo  wild  and  faint 

He  makes  to  the  hills  and  the  groves  his  plaint  ? 

That  oft  the  light  on  his  forehead  gleams, 

So  troubled  under  its  crown  of  dreams  % 

Watch  no  more,  lady,  no  more,  I  pray, 
He  is  wrapt  in  a  lonely  power  away ! 
Sweet  boy,  so  sleeping,  might  it  be 
That  any  prayer  I  said  for  thee 
Could  answer  win  from  the  spirit  shore, 
This  were  it,  "  Let  him  wake  no  more !" 


ASPIRATIONS. 

The  temples,  palaces  and  towers 
Of  the  old  time,  I  may  not  see  ; 

Nor  'neath  my  reverend  tread,  thy  flowers 
Bend  meekly  down,  Gethsemane ! 

By  Jordan's  wave  I  may  not  stand, 

Nor  climb  the  hills  of  Galilee ; 
Nor  break,  with  my  poor,  sinful  hand, 

The  emblems  of  apostacy. 

Nor  pitch  my  tent  'neath  Salem's  sky, 
As  faith's  impassioned  fervor  bids  ; 

Nor  hear  the  wild  bird's  startled  cry, 
From  Egypt's  awful  pyramids. 

I  have  not  stood,  and  may  not  stand, 

Where  Hermon's  dews  the  blossoms  feed; 

where  the  flint-sparks  light  the  sand, 
Beneath  the  Arab  lancer's  steed. 

Woe  for  the  dark  thread  in  rny  lot, 
That  still  hath  kept  my  feet  away 

From  pressing  toward  the  hallowed  spot, 
Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay. 
9*  20 1 


202  ASP  IK  ATI  ON  3. 

But  the  unhooded  soul  may  track 
Even  as  it  will,  the  dark  or  light, 

From  noontide's  sunny  splendors,  back 
To  the  dead  grandeur  of  old  night. 

And  even  I,  by  visions  led, 

The  Arctic  wastes  of  snow  may  stem ; 
The  Tartars'  black  tents  view,  or  tread 

Thy  gardens,  oh  Jerusalem  ! 

O'er  Judah's  hills  may  travel  slow, 
Or  ponder  Kedron's  brook  beside, 

Or  pluck  the  reeds  that  overgrow 
The  tomb  which  held  the  Crucified. 

And  does  not  He,  who  planned  the  bliss 
Above  us,  hear  the  praise  that  springs 

From  every  dust-pent  chrysalis, 
That  feels  the  stirring  of  its  wings  1 


CHANGED. 

Alas,  the  pleasant  dew  is  dry, 
That  made  so  sweet  the  morn ; 

And  midway  in  the  walk  of  life 
He  sits  as  one  forlorn. 

I  knew  the  time  when  this  was  not, 

AY  hen  at  the  close  of  day 
He  brought  his  little  boys  the  flowers 

Ploughed  up  along  his  way. 

The  ewes  that  browsed  the  daisy  buds 
Erewhile  (there  were  but  twain), 

Are  now  the  grandams  of  a  flock 
That  whiten  all  the  plain. 

The  twigs  he  set  his  marriage-day, 

Against  the  cabin  door, 
Make  shadows  in  the  summer  now, 

That  reach  across  the  floor. 

The  birds  with  red  brown  eyes,  he  sees 
Fly  round  him,  hears  the  low 

Of  pasturing  cattle,  hears  the  streams 
That  through  his  meadows  flow. 

203 


204  CHANGED. 

He  sees  the  pleasant  lights  of  home, 
And  yet  as  one  whose  ills 

Seek  comfort  of  the  winds  or  stars, 
He  stays  about  the  hills. 

The  once  dear  wife  his  lingering  step 

A  joy  no  longer  yields  ; 
No  more  he  brings  his  boys  the  flowers 

Ploughed  up  along  the  fields. 


WATCHING. 

Thy  smile  is  sad,  Elella, 
Too  sad  for  thee  to  wear, 

For  scarcely  have  we  yet  untwined 
The  rosebuds  from  thy  hair. 

So,  dear  one,  hush  thy  sobbing, 
And  let  thy  tears  be  dried — 

Methinks  thou  shouldst  be  happier, 
Three  little  months  a  bride. 

Hark  !  how  the  winds  are  heaping 
The  snow-drifts  cold  and  white — 

The  clouds  like  spectres  cross  the  sky- 
Oh,  what  a  lonesome  night ! 

The  hour  grows  late  and  later, 
I  hear  the  midnight  chime  : 

1  by  heart's  fond  keeper,  where  is  he  ? 
Why  comes  he  n.ot  ? — 't  is  time  ! 

make  my  heart  thy  pillow, 
And,  if  the  hours  seem  long, 
I  '11  wile  them  with  a  legend  wild, 
Or  fragment  of  old  song — 

205 


206  WATCHING. 

Or  read,  if  that  will  soothe  thee, 
Some  poet's  pleasant  rhymes  : 

Oh,  I  have  watched  and  waited  thus, 
I  cannot  tell  the  times ! 

Hush,  hark  !  across  the  neighboring  hills 
I  hear  the  watch-dog  bay — 

Stir  up  the  fire,  and  trim  the  lamp, 
I  'm  sure  he  's  on  the  way. 

Could  that  have  only  been  the  winds, 

So  like  a  footstep  near  ? 
No,  smile,  Elella,  smile  again, 

He 's  coming  home — he  is  here  ! 


WEARINESS. 

Oh,  still,  and  dumb,  and  silent  earth. 
Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms ; 

Wandering  and  weary  from  my  birth, 
I  seek  for  refuge  from  life's  storms. 

For  a  dark  shadow — not  the  grave's — 
Has  clasped  the  one  I  loved  from  me, 

And  winds  have  built  their  walls  of  waves, 
Between  us  in  the  eternal  sea. 

No  flowery,  sheltering  nook  have  I, 
Wherein  to  lay  my  weary  head ; 

Nature's  fair  bosom  is  drawn  dry, 
While  I  am  hungry  and  unfed. 

( )h.  for  the  dream  of  long  ago, 

When  to  my  raptured  eyes  'twas  given, 
To  see,  in  this  wild  world  below, 

Only  a  lower  range  of  Heaven. 

And  still,  sometimes,  the  shadow  lifts, 

And  through  my  soul  a  lost  voice  thrills, 
Wh.it  time  the  sunset's  golden  drifts 

me  sweeping  from  the  western  hills. 

2<)7 


208  THE     LULLABT. 

But,  in  the  noontide's  broader  beam, 
I  see  how  well  the  shadows  lie, 

And,  turning  from  the  twilight  dream, 
I  bow  my  face  to  earth  and  cry. 

Borne  down,  and  weary  with  the  storms, 
O,  earth !  receive  me  to  thy  breast, 

Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms, 
And  cool  this  burning;  heart  to  i\\st. 


THE  BETRAYAL. 

Tell  me  when  the  stars  are  flashing 

In  the  northern  sky  so  blue, 
Or  when  morning's  tender  crimson 

Sweetly  burns  along  the  dew, 
Comes  there  no  reproachful  whisper 

From  the  mornings  and  the  eves, 
When  Hope's  white  buds  into  beauty 

Opened  like  the  faint  young  leaves  ? 

Ay.  thou  feel'st,  despite  thy  silence — 
That  betrayal  burns  thy  cheek ; 

Even  to  Love's  forgiving  bosom 

There  be  thoughts  thou  canst  not  speak  I 

m  the  roses  of  that  bridal, 
The  dark  price  of  nameless  woe, 

Thou  may st  not  unbind  the  cur- 
Till  thy  la<t  of  suns  is  low  ! 

and  broken  is  the  music 
That  with  beauty  filled  the  night, — 
Melted  from  the  frozen  branches 

Are  the  frost-stars  glistening  bright, — 


210  THE     BETRAY  A  L  . 

When  a  maid  with  trembling  bosom 

Watched  a  ne'er  returning  steed, 
Cleaving  through  the  silver  shadows, 
On  and  on,  his  shaft-like  speed ! 

Faint  against  the  ringing  pavement, 

Fainter  still  the  hoof-strokes  beat  • 
Scarcely  can  sne  tell  tne  shimmer 

Of  the  flint-sparks  from  the  sleet. 
Years  are  gone  :  the  village  hill  tops 

Redden  with  the  sunset's  glow ; 
With  a  lap  all  bright  wTith  blossoms 

Still  the  summers  come  and  go. 

With  a  cheek  grown  thinner,  whiter, 

And  the  dark  locks  put  awTay 
From  a  brow  of  patient  beauty, 

Dwells  the  maiden  of  my  lay — 
Dwells  she,  where  the  peaceful  shadow 

Of  her  native  hills  is  thrown, 
Binding  up  the  wounds  of  others 

All  the  better  for  her  own. 


,  EDITH  TO   HAROLD  * 

Speak  soft,  and  smile  when  you  do  speak,  I  pray, 
For  though  I  seem  as  gentle  as  the  moon 
In  her  white  bed  of  clouds,  or  thrice  as  gaj 
As  any  robin  of  the  April  woods 
You  must  not  trust  me  wholly;  I  am  like 
Borne  mountain  creature  that  will  not  be  tamed, 
But  goes  back  to  its  nature  when  your  hand 
Caresses  it  most  fondly.     Even  a  look 
May  put  between  my  heart  and  all  the  world 
The  heavy  memory  of  my  monstrous  wrongs, 
And  make  me  hate  you,  sweetest,  with  the  rest. 
The  fatal  malady  is  in  my  blood, 
And  even  when  Death  shall  shear  away  the  thread 
That  holds  my  body  and  my  soul  in  one, 
No  flowers  but  poison  ones  will  strike  their  roots 
In  my  earthed  ashes.     'Tis  a  dreadful  thought — 
Tlir  last  May  grai  a  on  little  Thyra's  grave 
Was  full  of  violets — so  bright  and  blue  ! 
frown  not,  for  the  prophecy  is  true. 
Look  at  me  close,  and  see  if  in  i 
An-  not  the  hali-reproachful,  halt-mad  looks 
Of  beasts  too  sharply  goaded — I  do  fear 
The  loosing  of  all  fair  humanil 

•  See  Sir  Bulwer  I.  rold,  the  last  of  the  Ssxon  Kinc»." 

211 


212  EDITH     TO     HAROLD. 

Tell  me  you  love  me,  kiss  my  cheek,  my  mouth, 
And  talk  about  that  meadow  with  the  brook 
Brimful  of  sleepy  waters,  over  which 
A  milk-white  heifer  leaned  her  silver  horns, 
Wound  bright  with  scarlet  flowers,  and  where  the  sheep 
Graze  sheperdless,  save  when  of  fairest  nights 
Some  honest  rustic  walks  and  counts  his  lambs, 
So  making  pastime  with  his  lady-love, 
The  starry  lighting  of  whose  golden  hair 
To  his  pleased  eyes  makes  all  the  meadow  shine. 
Once,  when  we  stood  before  the  eastern  gate 
Of  Hilda's  castle,  you  did  tell  it  me, 
With  your  white  fingers  combing  the  long  mane 
Of  your  brown  charger — dead  in  the  last  war. 
It  was  a  pretty  picture,  and  the  end 
Was  harmless,  happy  love.     It  gave  my  heart 
For  a  full  hour  such  pleasant  comforting, 
That  I  did  after  makes  the  story  mine, 
And  feign  to  be  the  damsel  by  the  brook ; 
For  of  my  shepherd  I  could  be  the  queen, 
As,  sweetest,  Harold,  I  may  not  be  yours. 


PARTING  WITH  A  POET. 

All  the  sweet  summer  that  is  gone, 
Two  paths  I  sighed  to  mark — 

One  brightly  leading  up  and  on, 
One  downward  to  the  dark. 

No  prophecy  enwrapt  my  heart, 

No  Vala's  gifts  were  mine ; 
Yet  knew  I  that  our  paths  must  part — • 

The  loftier  one  be  thine. 

For  not  a  soul  inspiredly  thrills, 
Whose  wing  shall  not  be  free 
eep  across  the  eternal  hills, 
Like  winds  across  the  sea. 

And,  wheresoe'er  thy  lot  may  be, 

As  all  the  past  has  pro 
Love  shall  abide  and  be  with  thee, 

F'-r  genius  must  be  loved. 

While  I,  the  heart's  vain  yearning  stilled, 
The  heart  that  vexed  me  long, 
y  with  my  poor  hands  to  build 
silvery  walls  of  song. 

213 


214  PARTING     WITH     A     POET. 

Still,  through  the  nights  of  wild  unrest, 

That  softer  joyance  bars, 
Winding  about  my  vacant  breast 

The  tresses  of  the  stars. 

While  at  the  base  of  heights  sublime, 
Dim  thoughts  forevermore 

Lie  moaning,  like  the  waves  of  time 
Alonjr  thf  immortal  shore. 


THE  RECLAIMING  OF  THE  ANGEL. 

Oh  smiling  land  of  the  sunset, 

How  my  heart  to  thy  beauty  thrills — 
Veiled  dimly  to-day  with  the  shadow 

Of  the  greenest  of  all  thy  hills  ! 
Where  daisies  lean  to  the  sunshine, 

And  the  winds  a  plowing  go, 
And  break  into  shining  furrows 

The  mists  in  the  vale  below; 
Where  the  willows  hang  out  their  tassels. 

With  the  dews  all  white  and  eold, 
Strung  over  their  wands  so  limber, 

Like  pearls  upon  chords  of  gold; 
"\\  rhere  in  milky  hedges  of  hawthorn 

The  red-winged  thrushes  sing, 
And  the  wild  vine,  blight  and  flaunting, 

Twines  many  a  scarlet  ring; 
Where,  under  the  ripened  billows 

Of  the  silver-flowing  rye, 
We  ran  in  and  out  with  the  zephyrs — 

My  sunny-haired  brother  and  I. 

Oh.  when  the  green  kirtle  of  May  lime, 
Again  over  tin.-  hill-tops  i^  blown, 

215 


216    T&E  RECLAIMING   OF  THE  ANGEL. 

I  shall  walk  the  wild  paths  of  the  forest 

And  climb  the  steep  headlands  alone — 
Pausing  not  where  the  slopes  of  the  meadows 

Are  yellow  with  cowslip  beds, 
Nor  where,  by  the  wall  of  the  garden, 

The  hollyhocks  lift  their  bright  heads. 
In  hollows  that  dimple  the  hill-sides, 

Our  feet  till  the  sunset  had  been, 
Where  pinks  with  their  spikes  of  red  blossoms, 

Hedged  beds  of  blue  violets  in, 
While  to  the  warm  lip  of  the  sunbeam 

The  cheek  of  the  blush  rose  inclined, 
And  the  pansy's     soft  bosom  was  flushed  with 

The  murmurous  love  of  the  wind. 

But  when  'neath  the  heavy  tresses 

That  swept  o'er  the  dying  day, 
The  star  of  the  eve  like  a  lover 

Was  hiding  his  blushes  away, 
As  we  came  to  a  mournful  river 

That  flowed  to  a  lovely  shore, 
"  Oh,  sister,"  he  said,  "  I  am  weary — 

I  cannot  go  back  any  more !" 
And  seeing  that  round  about  him 

The  wings  of  the  angels  shone — 
I  parted  the  locks  from  his  forehead 

And  kissed  him  and  left  him  alone. 


ADELYN. 

Come,  comb  my  hair,  good  Hepsiba, 

The  sun  is  going  down, 
And  I,  within  an  hour  must  wear 

My  pretty  wedding-gown ! 

T  is  bleached  white  upon  the  grass, 

The  rainy  grass  of  May, 
Go  bring  it,  my  good  Hepsiba, 

It  is  my  wedding-day. 

And  Hepsiba  looks  out  and  sees, 

Behind  the  windy  hill, 
The  cloudy  sun  go  down,  and  hastes 

To  do  the  bride's  sweet  will. 

And  from  her  sick-bed  Adelyn 

Was  softly  lifted  down, 
To  have  her  black  hair  combed  so  smooth, 

And  wear  her  wedding-gown. 

Oh  !  never  o'er  the  windy  hills 
Came  clouds  so  fast  and  dread, 

And  never  beat  so  wild  a  rain 
Above  a  marriage-bed. 

iO  217 


2  IS 


ADELYN 


Unpastured  o'er  the  dry,  brown  sands, 

The  noisy  billows  crept, 
The  cattle  lowed,  but  Adelyn 

Through  all  the  tumult  slept. 

Upon  her  sweet  shut  eyes  they  laid 

The  roses  from  her  hair, 
And  when  the  bridegroom  kissed  her  cluck. 

She  never  looked  so  fair. 

At  morning,  he  who  came  to  meet 

The  bridal  train  so  brave, 
Hung  willows  in  his  boat,  and  rowed 

A  corse  across  the  wave. 


I 


MADELA. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  one !  oh,  my  lover ! 

Comes  no  faintest  sound  to  you, 
As  I  call  your  sweet  words  over, 

All  the  weary  night-time  through! 
Drearily  the  rain  keeps  falling — 

I  can  hear  it  on  the  pane ; 
( >h.  he  cannot  hear  my  calling — 

He  will  never  come  again  !" 
So  a  pale  one,  lowly  lying 

On  her  sick  bed,  often  cried — 
■   I  ome,  my  dear  one,  I  am  dying  !" 

But  no  lover's  voice  replied. 

"  When  the  morning-light  is  shining 

Over  all  the  eastern  hills, 
Thou,  whose  heart  is  still  divining 

Every  wish  in  mine  that  thrills — 
If  he  come,  and  I  am  dying, 

If  my  hands  be  cold  as  clay, 
And  my  lips  make  no  replying 

To  the  wild  words  he  will  say, 
As  he  fondly  bends  above  me, 

Just  as  you  are  bending  now, 
Saying  how  he  used  to  love  me, 

Pressing  kisses  on  my  brow — 

219 


220  MADE  LA. 

Take  this  ringlet  ere  from  twining 

Dampened  in  that  dew  so  near ; 
He  has  often  praised  its  shining — 

Will  he  when  I  cannot  hear  1 
Give  it  softly  to  his  keeping, 

Saying,  as  1  would  have  said, 
'  Go  not  through  the  world  a-weeping 

For  the  dear  one  who  is  dead ;' 
And,  as  you  the  shroud  upgather, 

That  shall  hide  me  from  his  eyes, 
Tell  him  of  the  pitying  Father — 

Of  the  love  that  never  dies." 

Through  the  eastern  clouds  the  amber, 

Burning,  tells  the  night-time  past ! 
Dark  and  silent  is  her  chamber — 

She  is  sleeping  well  at  last ! 
Is't  the  white  hand  of  her  lover 

Puts  her  curtain's  fold  away  ? 
Is  it  he  that  bends  above  her, 

Saying,  "Dear  one,  wake,  'tis  day  !" 
No  ;  the  wind,  despite  Death's  warning, 

'T  is,  that  in  her  curtain  stirs, 
And  the  blue  eyes  are  the  morning's, 

That  are  bending  down  to  her's. 
Lay  the  hands,  for  love's  sake  lifted 

Oft  in  prayer,  together  bound, 
While  the  unheeded  ringlet  drifted 

Lightly,  brightly,  to  the  ground. 


THE  BROKEN  HOUSEHOLD. 

Vainly,  vainly  memory  seeks, 

Round  our  father's  knee, 
Laughing  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks 

Where  they  used  to  be : 
Of  the  circle  once  so  wide, 
Three  are  wanderers,  three  have  died. 

Golden-haired  and  dewy-eyed, 

Prattling  all  the  day, 
Waa  the  baby,  first  that  died; 

Oh,  'twas  hard  to  lay 
Dimpled  hand  and  cheek  of  snow 
In  the  grave  so  dark  and  low. 

Smiling  back  on  all  who  smiled, 

Ne'er  by  sorrow  thralled, 
Haifa  woman,  half  a  child, 

Was  the  next  one  called : 
Then  a  grave  more  deep  and  wide 
Made  they  by  the  baby's  side. 

221 


;22  THE      BROKEN      HOUSEHOLD 

When  or  where  the  other  died 

Only  Heaven  can  tell ; 
Treading  manhood's  path  of  pride 

Was  he  when  he  fell ; 
Haply  thistles,  blue  and  red, 

Bloom  about  his  lonely  bed. 

I  am  for  the  living  three 

Only  left  to  pray  ; 
Two  are  on  the  stormy  sea ; 

Farther  still  than  they, 
Wanders  one,  his  young  heart  dim — 
Oftenest,  most  I  pray  for  him. 

Whatsoe'er  they  do  or  dare, 
Wheresoe'er  they  roam, 

Have  them,  Father,  in  Thy  care, 
Guide  them  safely  home ; 

Home,  oh,  Father,  in  the  sky, 

Where  none  wander  and  none  die. 


'      TO  MARY. 

Oh.  will  affection's  tendrils  twine 

About  that  summer  time  for  aje. 
When,  midway  'twixt  thy  home  and  mine, 

The  quiet  village  churchyard  lay  !  — 
With  stars  beginning  to  ascend, 

The  nighthawks  scooping  through  the  air- 
Dost  thou  remember,  oh  my  friend, 

How  often  we  have  parted  there  1 

That  summer  was  a  sunlit  sea, 

Reflecting  neither  cloud  nor  frown, 
Yet  in  its  bright  wave  noiselessly 

Some  ventures  of  the  heart  went  down  : 
Blest  be  the  one  that  still  outrides 

The  silent  but  tumultuous  strife 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  the  heaving  tides, 

That  beat  against  the  shore  of  life  ! 

The  flowers  run  wild  that  used  to  be 
>ftly  tended  by  thy  hand — 
•s  of  beauty  struck  at  sea, 
And  drifted  backward  to  the  land  ; 
Breathing  of  havens  whence  we  sailed, 

Jons  of  lovelight  seen  and  fled, 
Swift  barks  of  gladness  met  and  hailed — 
Of  beacon  fires,  and  land  ah<  ad  ! 


224  T  0     M  A  R  Y  . 

To-night,  sweet  friend,  the  light  and  shade 

Are  trembling  softly  in  my  heart ; 
A  hush  upon  my  soul  is  laid — 

Our  paths  henceforth  must  lie  apart ; 
In  the  dim  chamber  where  I  sit, 

Fears,  hopes,  and  memories  rise  and  blend, 
Like  cloud  wastes  with  the  sunshine  lit — 

Only  with  them  art  thou  my  friend  ! 


PARTING   SONG. 

Behind  their  cloudy  curtains, 
Over  sunset's  crimson  sea, 

Like  fires  along  a  battle  field, 
Intensely,  mournfully, 

The  radiant  stars  are  burning, 
That  will  burn  no  more  for  me. 

Ere  on  yon  path  of  glory, 

Which  still  the  daylight  warms, 

Walks  silently  the  midnight, 
With  the  silence  in  her  arms, 

I  shall  be  where  longings  trouble  not, 
Nor  haunting  fear  alarms. 

Nay.  weep  not,  gentlest,  dearest, 
When  joy  should  most  abound, 

That  the  dewy,  tender  clasping 
Of  thy  arms  must  be  unwound ; 

We  have  journeyed  long  together 
In  life's  wilderness  profound. 

10*  225 


226  PARTING      S  O  X  G  . 

Like  the  shining  threads  of  silver 

Which  the  showers  of  summer  leave, 

When  to  webs  of  beauty  woven 

By  the  golden  loom  of  eve, 

Is  the  path  that  lies  before  me  now — - 

Then,  dear  one,  do  not  grieve. 

Mortality  has  been  to  me 

A  wheel  of  pain,  at  best, 
And  I  sink,  although  thy  gentle  love 

Has  soothed  and  almost  blest, 
As  a  pilgrim  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  sepulchre,  to  rest. 

Not  when  the  morn  is  glowing, 
Like  a  banner  o'er  the  brave, 

Nor  when  the  world  is  bathing 
In  the  noontide's  amber  wave, 

Will  I  come,  oh  Love,  to  meet  thee 
From  the  chamber  of  the  grave. 

But  through  the  silver  columns 
Leaning  earthward  from  the  arch, 

When  the  pale  and  solemn  army 
Of  the  night  is  on  the  march, 

I  will  glide,  oh  Love,  to  meet  thee, 
From  the  shadow  of  the  larch. 

As  the  poet's  bosom  trembles 

With  some  awful  melody, 
Till  he  hears  the  dark  procession 

Of  the  ages  sweeping  by, 
Lo  !  my  heart  is  trembling,  beating, 

To  the  music  of  the  sky. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  WO. 

Dimly  the  shadows  stretch  across  the  seas, 

With  glistening  frost  the  window  pane  is  white  ; 

And  the  blind  winds  go  moaning  through  the  trees — 
Oh!  'tis  a  mournful  night! 

Under  the  rafters,  where,  in  summer's  heat, 
The  twittering  swallow  hung  her  nest  of  clay, 

The  new-milked  heifer,  sheltered  from  the  sleet, 
Chews  the  sweet-scented  hay. 

<  hi  southern  slopes,  hard  by  the  leafy  wold, 

Where  the  stray  sunbeams  all  the  day  kept  warm, 

Instinct  is  shepherding  the  harmless  fold 
From  the  ice-bearded  storm. 

The-  watch-dog,  shivering  couchant  on  the  sill, 
Watches  the  moon,  slow  sailing  up  the  sky, 

Nor  answers,  calling  from  the  churchyard  hill, 
The  owlet's  frequent  cry. 

In  tin-  dim  grass  the  little  flowers  are  dead, 

\  bis  song  tli-  pper  awakes, 

And  the  pale  silver  of  the  spid<  i"s  thread, 
wanton  wild-bird  brea! 


228  THE     BRIDAL     OF     WO. 

Yet  does  my  soul,  whose  flights  have  sometimes  stirred 

The  cloud  that  curtains  back  eternity, 
Lie  wailing  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bird, 

Driven  far  out  at  sea. 

On  such  a  night  my  heart  was  wed  to  pain, 
And  joy  along  its  surface  can  but  gleam, 

Like  the  red  threads  of  morning's  fiery  skein 
Alons:  the  frozen  stream. 


A   DREAM   UNTOLD. 

Beneath  the  yellow  hair  of  May 
The  blushing  flowers  together  lay, 
The  winds  along  the  bending  lea, 
Kept  flowing,  flowing,  like  a  sea 

That  could  not  rest, 
When  first  a  maid  with  tresses  brown, 
And  blue  eyes  softly  drooping  down, 
Sat  in  her  chamber  high  and  lone, 
Locking  a  sweet  dream,  all  her  own, 

Within  her  breast. 

The  elms  around  the  homestead  low 
All  night  went  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  the  young  summer's  silver  rain 
Kept  beating  on  the  window  pane, 

So  soft  and  low, 
It  could  not  trouble  the  fair  maid 
Who  tremblingly  and  half  afraid 

gazing  on  the  village  Lights, 
That  glimmered  o'er  the  neighboring  heights, 

In  -  vo. 

220 


230  A      DREAM      UNTOLD. 

The  summer's  tender  glow  is  fled, 
The  early  budding  flowers  are  dead, 
But  others,  with  their  leaves  scaree  paled, 
And  their  flushed  bosoms  all  unveiled, 

In  bloom  remain ; 
The  hills  are  white  with  ripened  rye, 
The  quails  from  out  the  meadows  fly ; 
The  mower's  whistling,  blithely  gay, 
Makes  answer  to  the  milkmaid's  lay, 
In  vain — in  vain  ! 

'Tis  one  of  autumn's  lonesome  eves, 
And  eddying  drifts  of  withered  leaves 
Are  scattered  in  the  woods  b'ehind, 
By  the  damp  fingers  of  the  wind  ; 

But  hope  dies  not, 
And  happy  maids  and  youths  are  seen 
Together  straying  on  the  green, 
While  trembling  hand  and  blushing  cheek 
Tell  better  far  than  words  can  speak, 

Each  other's  thought. 

Winter  is  come — the  homestead  low 
Is  whitened  by  the  falling  snow  ; 
In  the  warm  hearth  the  cricket  cries, 
And  the  storm-shaken  bough  replies  ; 

The  watch-dog's  bay 
Is  answered  from  the  neighboring  hill — 
"'Tis  very  dark,  the  night,  is  chill," 
Is  by  the  pale  lips  faintly  said, 
Of  her  beside  whose  dying  bed 
They  kneel  to  pray. 


A     DREAM     UNTOLD.  231 

Morning  is  up — her  wing  of  fire 
Is  shivering  o'er  the  village  spire, 
And  in  the  churchyard  down  below 
Shining  along  the  mounds  of  snow 

Serenely  bright, 
The  maiden  with  the  hair  so  brown, 
And  blue  eyes  softly  drooping  down, 
Her  dream,  whate'er  it  was,  unknown, 
Shall  lie  beneath  the  cross  of  stone, 

Ere  close  of  night. 


THE   CONVICT. 

The  first  of  the  September  eves 

Sunk  its  red  basement  in  the  sea, 
And  like  swart  reapers,  bearing  sheaves, 

Dim  shadows  thronged  immensity. 
Then  from  his  ancient  kingdom,  Night 

Wooing  the  tender  Twilight,  came, 
And  from  her  tent,  of  soft  blue  light, 

Bore  her  away,  a  bride  of  flame. 

Pushing  aside  her  golden  hair, 

And  listening  to  the  Autumn's  tread, 
Along  the  hill-tops,  bleak  and  bare, 

Went  Summer,  burying  her  dead ; 
The  frolic  winds,  out-laughing  loud, 

Played  with  the  thistle's  silver  beard, 
And  drifting  seaward  like  a  cloud, 

Slowly  the  wild-birds  disappeared. 

Upon  a  hill  with  mosses  brown, 

Beneath  the  blue  roof  of  the  sky, 

As  the  dim  day  went  sadly  down, 

Stood  all  the  friend  I  had,  and  I — 
232 


THE     CONVICT.  2o3 

Watching  the  sea-mist  of  the  strand 

Wave  to  and  fro  in  Evening's  breath, 
Like  the  pale  gleaming  of  the  hand 

That  beckons  from  the  shore  of  Death, 
Talking  of  days  of  gladness  flown, 

Of  Sorrow's  great  overwhelming  waves, 
Of  friends  loved  well  as  they  were  known, 

Now  sleeping  in  their  voiceless  graves ; 
And  as  our  thoughts  o'erswept  the  past, 

Like  stars  that  through  the  darkness  move, 
Our  hearts  grew  softer,  and  at  last 

We  talked  of  friendship,  talked  of  love. 
Then,  as  the  long  and  level  reach 

Back  to  our  homestead  slow  we  trod, 
gave  our  fond  pure  pledges  each, 

Of  truth  unto  ourselves  and  God. 

Forth  to  life's  conflict  and  its  care, 

Doomed  wert  thou,  Oh  my  friend,  to  go, 
Leaving  me  only  hope  and  prayer 

To  shelter  my  poor  heart  from  wo. 
UA  little  year,  and  we  shall  meet!" 

Still  at  my  heart  that  whisper  thrills — 
The  spring-shower  is  not  half  so  sweet, 

Covering  with  violets  all  the  hills. 

Dimly  the  days  sped,  one  by  one, 

Slowly  the  weeks  and  months  went  round, 
Until  again  Sepl        er'a  sun 

Lighted  the  hill  with  moss  embrowned. 


234  THE      CONVICT. 

That  night  we  met — my  friend  and  I — 

Not  as  the  last  year  saw  us  part : 
He  as  a  convict  doomed  to  die, 

I  with  a  bleeding,  breaking  heart — 
Not  in  our  homestead,  low  and  old, 

Nor  under  Evening's  roof  of  stars, 
But  where  the  earth  was  damp  and  cold, 

And  the  light  struggled  through  the  bars. 

Others  might  mock  him,  or  disown, 

With  lying  tongue  :  my  place  was  there, 
And  as  I  bore  him  to  the  throne 

Upon  the  pleading  arms  of  prayer, 
He  told  me  how  Temptation's  hand 

Pressed  the  red  wine-cup  to  his  lip, 
Leaving  him  powerless  to  withstand 

As  the  storm  leaves  the  sinking  ship ; 
4nd  how,  all  blind  to  evil  then, 

Down  from  the  way  of  life  he  trod, 
Winning  against  his  fellow-men — 

Reviling  the  dear  name  of  God. 


SICK  AND  IX  PRISON. 

Wildly  falls  the  night  around  me, 
Chains  I  cannot  break  have  bound  me, 
Spirits  unrebuked,  undriven 
From  before  me,  darken  heaven  ; 
Creeds  bewilder,  and  the  saying 
Unfelt  prayers,  makes  need  of  praying. 

In  this  bitter  anguish  lying, 

Only  thou  wilt  hear  my  crying — 

Thou,  whose  hands  wa-h  white  the  erring 

Afl  rhe  wool  is  at  the  shearing ; 

Not  with  dulcimer  or  psalter, 

But  with  tears,  I  seek  thy  altar. 

that  trod  the  mount  so  weary, 
B  that  pitying  looked  on  Mary, 

it  brought  the  Father's  blessing, 
ittle  children  prea 
Voice  that  said,  "Behold  thy  broth 
Lo,  I  seek  ye  and  none  other. 

oh  gentlest  eyes  of  pity 
Out  of  Zion,  the  glorious  city  ; 


23G  SICK     AND     IN     PRISON. 

Speak,  oh  voice  of  mercy,  sweetly  ; 
Hide  me,  hands  of  love,  completely; 
Sick,  in  prison,  lying  lonely, 
Ye  can  lift  me  up,  ye  only. 

In  my  hot  brow  soothe  the  aching, 
In  my  sad  heart  stay  the  breaking, 
On  my  lips  the  murmur  trembling, 
Change  to  praises  undissembling ; 
Make  me  wise  as  the  evangels, 
Clothe  me  with  the  wings  of  angels. 

Power  that  made  the  few  loaves  many, 
Power  that  blessed  the  wine  at  Cana, 
Power  that  said  to  Lazarus,  "  Waken  !" 
Leave,  oh  leave  me  not  forsaken  ! 
Sick  and  hungry,  and  in  prison, 
Save  me  Crucified  and  Risen ! 


OLD   STORIES. 

No  beautiful  star  will  twinkle 

To-night  through  my  window-pane, 

As  I  list  to  the  mournful  falling 
Of  the  leaves  and  the  autumn  rain. 

High  up  in  his  leafy  covert 
The  squirrel  a  shelter  hath ; 

And  the  tall  grass  hides  the  rabbit. 
Asleep  in  the  churchyard  path. 

On  the  hills  is  a  voice  of  wailing 
For  the  pale  dead  flowers  again, 

That  sounds  like  the  heavy  trailing 
Of  robes  in  a  funeral  train. 

Oh,  if  there  were  one  who  loved  me — 
A  kindly  and  gray -haired  sire. 

To  sit  and  rehearse  old  stories 
To-night  by  my  cabin-fire — 

The  winds  as  they  would  might  rattle 
The  pane,  or  the  trees  so  tall — 

In  the  tale  of  a  stirring  battle 
My  heart  would  forget  them  all. 

237 


238  OLD     STORIES. 

Or  if,  by  the  embers  dying, 

We  talked  of  the  past,  the  while, 

I  should  see  bright  spirits  flying 
From  the  pyramids  and  the  Nile. 

Echoes  from  harps  long  silent 

Would  troop  through  the  aisles  of  time. 
And  rest  on  the  soul  like  sunshine, 

If  we  talked  of  the  bards  sublime. 

But,  hark !  did  a  phantom  call  me, 
Or  was  it  the  wind  went  by  1 

Wild  are  my  thoughts  and  restless, 
But  they  have  no  power  to  fly. 

In  place  of  the  cricket  humming, 
And  the  moth  by  the  candle's  light, 

I  hear  but  the  deathwatch  drumming — 
I  've  heard  it  the  livelong  night. 

Oh  for  a  friend  who  loved  me — 

Oh  for  a  grey-haired  sire, 
To  sit  with  a  quaint  old  story 

To-night  by  my  cabin  fire  ! 


VISIONS   OF   LIGHT. 

The  moon  is  rising  in  beauty 
The  sky  is  solemn  and  bright, 

And  the  waters  are  singing  like  lovers 
That  walk  in  the  valleys  at  night. 

Like  the  towers  of  an  ancient  city, 
That  darken  against  the  sky, 

Seems  the  blue  mist  of  the  river 
O'er  the  hill-tops  far  and  high. 

1  see  through  the  gathering  darkness 
The  spire  of  the  village  church, 

And  the  pale  white  tombs,  half  hidden 
By  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch. 

Vain  is  the  golden  drifting 
Of  morning  light  on  the  hill ; 

No  white  hand  opens  the  windows 
Of  those  chambers  low  and  still. 

But  their  dwellers  were  all  my  kindred 

Whatever  their  lives  might 
And  their  sufferings  and  achievements 

Have  recorded  lessons  f  »r  me, 

239 


210  VISIONS     OF     LIGHT. 

Not  one  of  the  countless  voyagers 

Of  life's  mysterious  main 
Has  laid  down  his  burden  of  sorrows, 

Who  hath  lived  and  loved  in  vain. 

From  the  bards  of  the  elder  ages 
Fragments  of  song  float  by, 

Like  flowers  in  the  streams  of  summer, 
Or  stars  in  the  midnight  sky. 

Some  plumes  in  the  dust  are  scattered, 
Where  the  eagles  of  Persia  flew, 

And  wisdom  is  reaped  from  the  furrows 
The  plough  of  the  Eoman  drew. 

From  the  white  tents  of  the  Crusaders 
The  phantoms  of  glory  are  gone, 

But  the  zeal  of  the  barefooted  hermit 
In  humanity's  heart  lives  on. 

Oh !  sweet  as  the  bell  of  the  Sabbath 
In  the  tower  of  the  village  church, 

Or  the  fall  of  the  yellow  moonbeams 
In  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch — 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  blessed  issues 
That  shall  follow  our  social  strife, 

When  the  spirit  of  love  maketh  perfect 
The  beautiful  mission  of  life. 


LONGINGS. 

I  am  weary  of  the  mystery 

Of  life  aud  death,  and  long  to  see 

Into  the  great  eternity  : 

The  locked  hands  loose,  the  feet  untied, 
The  blank  eyes  re-illumined, 
The  senseless  ashes  deified. 

For  as  the  ages  come  and  go, 
The  tides  of  being  ever  flow, 
From  light  to  darkness,  ending  so. 

A  little  gladness  for  the  birth, 
For  youth  a  little  soberer  mirth, 
For  age,  a  looking  toward  the  earth — 

A  listening  for  the  spirit's  call, 

A  reaching  up  the  smooth,  steep  wall 

Of  the  close  grave — and  this  is  all. 

Hoping,  we  find  that  hope  is  vain  ; 
Are  pleased,  and  pleasure  ends  in  pain ; 
Loving,  we  win  no  love  again. 

•ring  our  sorrow,  a  wild  weight, 

fate 

omfort  us,  and  when  we  wait— 
11  241 


242  LONGINGS. 

Winning  no  answer  to  the  quest, 
Madly  with  angels  we  contest, 
Asking  if  that  which  is,  is  best. 


Ro  life  wears  out,  and  so  the  din 

Goes  on,  and  other  lives  begin 

The  same  as  though  we  had  not  been. 


*&* 


True,  here  and  there  in  lime's  dead  mould, 

There  stands  some  obelisk  of  gold, 

For  which,  God  knoweth,  peace  was  sold. 


For  they  must  meet  their  fellows'  frown, 
And  wear  on  throbbing  brows  the  crown, 
O'er  whom  death's  curtain  shuts  not  clown. 


Others  for  fame  may  do  and  dare, 
For  me  it  seems  enough  to  bear 
The  ills  of  being  while  we  are  : 

Without  the  strife,  to  leave  behind 
A  name  with  laurels  intertwined, 
To  be  of  evil  tongues  maligned. 

And  had  I  power  to  choose,  to-day, 
Some  good  to  help  me  on  my  way, 
1  truly  think  that  I  would  say — 

"  Oh  thou  who  gavest  me  mortal  breath, 
And  hold'st  me  here  'twixt  life  and  death, 
Double  the  measure  of  my  faith  !" 


THE  TIME  TO  BE. 

I  sit  where  the  leaves  of  the  maple 
And  the  gnarled  and  knotted  gum 

Are  circling  and  drifting  around  me. 
And  think  of  the  time  to  come. 

For  the  human  heart  is  the  mirror 
Of  the  things  that  are  near  and  far ; 

Like  the  wave  that  reflects  in  its  bosom 
The  flower  and  the  distant  star. 

As  change  is  the  order  of  nature, 
And  beauty  springs  from  decay, 

So  in  its  destined  season 

The  false  for  the  true  makes  way. 

The  darkening  power  of  evil, 
And  discordant  jars  and  crime, 

Are  the  cry  preparing  the  wilder] 
For  the  flower  and  the  harvest-time. 

Though  doublings  and  weak  i 
May  rise  to  the  soul's  alarm, 

Lik<-  •  -  of  the  her<  tic  burners, 

In  the  province  of  bold  reform. 

243 


244  THE     TIME     TO     BE. 

And  now  as  the  summer  is  fading, 
And  the  cold  clouds  full  of  rain, 

And  the  net,  in  the  fields  of  stubble 
And  the  briers,  is  spread  in  vain — 

I  catch  through  the  mists  of  life's  river, 
A  glimpse  of  the  time  to  be, 

When  the  chain,  from  the  bondman  rusted, 
Shall  leave  him  erect  and  free — 

On  the  solid  and  broad  foundation, 
A  common  humanity's  right, 

To  cover  his  branded  shoulder 

With  the  garment  of  love  from  sight. 


REMORSE. 

Break  sweetly,  red  morning, 

I  shudder  with  fear, 
For  dreaming  at  midnight 
My  darling,  my  dear, 
My  Mary,  my  lost  loving  Mary,  was  here. 

Soft  smoothing  my  pillow, 
Soft  soothing  my  woe, 
She  folded  the  coverlid, 
Dainty  as  snow, 
About  my  chill  bosom,  and  kneeling  so  slow, 

Meek  clasped  she  together 
Her  hands,  lily  white, 
While  the  flow  of  her  tresses, 
All  golden  with  light 
Of  the  world  where  there  never  is  any  more  night, 
FeU  over  my  forehead, 

And  bathed  it  like  dew, 
A  -  the  pale  mortal  sorrow 
In  lifetime  she  know, 

d  wit*  the  fond  whisper,  «  Pray  I  for  you." 

245 


246  REMORSE. 

And  therefore  this  tremulous 

Shudder  of  pain 
Shakes  my  desolate  bosom ; 
This  agonized  rain 
Fills  my  eyes,  that  I  thought  not  to  vex  me  again. 

Break  sweetly,  red  morning, 

Break  sweetly,  I  pray ; 
In  the  darkness  of  midnight 

As  moaning  I  lay, 
Fled  this  vision,  this  beautiful  vision  away. 

On  a  hill  where  the  larches 

Trail  low  to  the  ground, 
Till  the  moon  lights  but  faintly 
The  headstones  around, 
Fast  asleep  lieth  Mary  beneath  the  hushed  mound. 

Jn  her  white  shroud  she  lieth 
Beneath  the  cold  stone — 
My  life  was  the  shadow 

That  darkened  her  own, 
Vnd  my  death-crown  to-night  is  of  thorns  I  have  sown. 


DESPAIR. 

Come,  most  melancholy  maid. 
From  thy  tent  of  woful  shade, 
And  with  hemlock,  sere  and  brown, 
Keep  the  struggling  daylight  down. 
From  thy  pale  unsmiling  brow 
Wind  the  heavy  tresses  now, 
And  in  whispers  sad  and  low 
J  will  tell  thee  all  my  wo. 

The  path  watched  and  guarded  most. 
By  an  evil  star  is  crossed, 
And  a  dear  one  lies  to  day 
Sick,  in  prison,  far  away — 
Naked,  famished,  Buffering  wrong; 
Dreamed  1  of  him  all  night  lung, 
And  eaeli  dreary  wind  o'erblown 
Seemed  an  echo  of  his  moan. 

When  he  Lefl  me,  long  ago, 

Brown  locks,  touched  of  summer's  glow, 

Beautified  Ins  boyish  brow — 

Thinned  and  laded  are  they  now. 

247 


248  DESPAIR. 

Seeing  clouds  like  oxen  stray 
Through  the  azure  fields  all  day, 
And  the  lengthening  sunbeams  lie 
Like  Bright  furrows  of  the  sky, 
Underneath  an  oaken  roof 
We  were  sitting,  sorrow-proof — 
Cheating  I  with  tales  the  hours, 
Heaping  he  my  lap  with  flowers. 

As  yon  elm,  the  ivied  one, 
Came  between  us  and  the  sun, 
And  the  lambs  went  toward  the  fold, 
1  remember  that  I  told, 
How  the  robin  and  the  wren, 
Friendless  and  unburied  men 
Cover  with  the  leaves  of  flowers 
From  the  twilight's  chilly  hours. 

Now  along  the  level  snow 
Glistening  the  frost  specks  glow, 
And  the  trees  stand  high  and  bare, 
Shivering  in  the  bitter  air. 
— Come,  oh  melancholy  maid, 
From  thy  tent  of  woful  shade, 
That  in  whispers,  sad  and  low, 
I  may  tell  thee  all  my  wo. 


RESPITE. 

Leave  me,  dear  ones,  to  my  slumber, 
Daylight's  faded  glow  is  gone  ; 

In  the  red  light  of  the  morning 
I  must  rise  and  journey  on. 

I  am  weary,  oh,  how  weary ! 

And  would  rest  a  little  while  ; 
Let  your  kind  looks  be  my  blessing, 

And  your  last  "  Good-night"  a  smile. 

A\  e  have  journeyed  up  together, 

Through  the  pleasant  day-time  flown  ; 

Now  my  feet  have  pressed  life's  summit, 
And  my  pathway  lies  alone. 

And.  my  dear  ones,  do  not  call  me, 

Should  you  haply  be  awake, 
When  across  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Presently  the  day  shall  break. 

vhile  yet  the  stars  are  lying 
In  the  gray  lap  of  the  dawn, 
On  my  long  and  solemn  journey 
I  -hall  be  awake  and  gone  ; 

11#  249 


250  RESPITE. 

Far  from  mortal  pain  and  sorrow. 
And  from  passion's  stormy  swell, 

Knocking  at  the  golden  gateway 
Of  the  eternal  citadel. 

Therefore,  dear  ones,  let  me  slumber- 
Faded  is  the  day  and  gone  ; 

And  with  morning's  early  splendor, 
I  must  rise  and  journey  on. 


OF  ONE  DYING. 

Int  the  blue  middle  heavens  of  June 

The  sun  was  burning  bright, 
What  time  we  parted — now  !  alas, 

Tis  winter-time  and  night. 
The  swart  November  long  ago, 

With  troops  of  gloomy  hours, 
Went  folding  the  October's  tents 

Of  misty  gold,  like  flowers. 

The  wind  hangs  moaning  on  the  pane, 

The  cricket  tries  to  sing, 
And  a  voice  tells  me  all  the  while, 

It  never  will  be  spring ; 
It  never  will  be  spring  to  her, 

For  in  the  west  wind's  flow, 
I  hear  a  sound  that  seems  to  me 

Like  digging  in  the  snow. 

She  will  not  have  to  lay  away 
The  baby  from  her  knees — 
The  wild  birdfl  rang  his  lullaby 
it  summer  in  the  trees  ; 

251 


252  OF     ONE     DYING. 

The  cedars  and  the  cypresses, 
That  in  the  churchyard  grow — 

But  little  Alice  will  be  left- 
How  shall  we  make  her  know, 

"When  she  shall  see  the  pallid  brow, 

The  shroud  about  the  dead, 
That  the  beloved  one  is  in 

The  azure  overhead  ? 
For  scarcely  by  the  open  grave, 

Have  we  of  larger  light 
And  clearer  faith,  the  strength  to  shape 

The  spirit's  upward  flight. 


MAY  VERSES. 

• 
Do  you  hear  the  wild  birds  calling — 

Do  you  hear  them,  oh  my  heart  ? 
Do  you  see  the-  blue  air  falling 

From  their  rushing  wings  apart  ? 

With  young  mosses  they  are  flocking, 
For  they  hear  the  laughing  breeze, 

With  dewy  fingers  rocking 

Their  light  cradles  in  the  trees  ! 

Within  nature's  bosom  holden, 
'Till  the  wintry  storms  were  done, 

Little  violets,  white  and  golden, 
Now  are  leaning  to  the  sun. 

With  its  stars  the  box  is  florid, 

And  the  wind-flower,  sweet  to  view, 

Hath  uncovered  its  pale  forehead 
To  the  kisses  of  the  dew. 

While  thousand  blossoms  tender, 

As  coquettishly  as  they, 
Are  sunning  their  wild  splendor 

In  the  blue  eyes  of  the  May  ' 

2o3 


254  MAY     VERSES. 

In  the  water  softly  dimple! — 
In  the  flower-enameled  sod — 

How  beautifully  exampled 
Is  the  providence  of  God  ! 

From  the  insect's  little  story 
To  the  fartherest  star  above, 

All  are  waves  of  glory,  glory, 
In  the  ocean  of  his  love  ! 


WURTHA. 

Through  the  autumn's  mists  so  red 
Shot  the  slim  and  golden  stocks 

Of  the  ripe  corn  ;  Wurtha  said, 
"  Let  us  cut  them  fur  our  flocks."  ' 

Answered  I,  "  When  morning  leaves 
Her  bright  footprints  on  the  sea. 

As  I  cut  and  bind  the  sheaves, 

Wurtha,  thou  shalt  glean  for  me." 

"  Nay,  the  full  moon  shines  so  bright 

All  along  the  vale  below, 
I  could  count  our  flocks  to-night  ; 

Haco,  let  us  rise  and  go. 
For  when  bright  the  risen  morn 

Leaves  her  footprints  on  the  sea, 
Thou  may'st  cut  and  bind  the  corn, 

But  I  cannot  glean  for  thee." 

And  as  I  my  reed  so  light 

her  fears  to  calm. 
ihe,    ••  Haco,  yesternight 
In  my  dream  I  missed  a  lamb 


£.56  WURTHA. 

And  as  down  the  misty  vale 

Went  I  pining  for  the  lost, 
Something  shadowy  and  pale, 

Phantom-like,  my  pathway  crossed, 
v  Saying,  "  In  a  chilly  bed, 

Low  and  dark,  but  full  of  peace, 
For  your  coming,  softly  spread, 

Is  the  dead  lamb's  snowy  fleece." 

Passed  the  sweetest  of  all  eves — 

Morn  was  breaking,  for  our  flocks : 
"  Let  us  go  and  bind  to  sheaves, 

All  the  slim  and  golden  stocks; 
Wake,  my  Wurtha,  wake" — but  still 

Were  her  lips  as  still  could  1  »e, 
And  her  folded  hands  too  chill 

Ever  more  to  glean  for  me. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS. 

Sat  we  ou  the  mossy  rocks 

In  the  twilight,  long  ago, 
I  and  Ulna  keeping  flocks — 

Flocks  with  fleeces  white  as  snow. 
Beauty  smiled  along  the  sky  ; 

Beauty  shone  along  the  sea ; 
"  Tina,  Ulna,"  whispered  1,    * 

This  is  all  for  you  and  m«.- !  " 

Brushing  back  my  heavy  locks, 

Said  he,  not,  alas !  in  glee, 
"  Art  content  in  keeping  flocks 

AVith  a  shepherd  boy  like  me  ?" — 
Shone  the  moon  so  softly  white 

Down  upon  the  mossy  rocks, 
Covering  sweetly  with  her  light 

Me  and  Ulna,  and  our  flocks. 

Running  wild  about  our  feet 

Were  the  blushing  summer  flowers — 
i:  Ulna,"  said  I,  "  what  is  sweet 

In  this  world  that  is  not  ours?" 


258  THE     SHEPHERDESS. 

Thrice  he  kissed  my  cheek,  and  sighed, 
These  are  dreary  rocks  and  cold — 

Oh,  the  world  is  very  wide, 
And  I  weary  of  my  fold ! 

Now  a  thousand  oxen  stray 

That  are  Ulna's,  down  the  moor, 
And  great  ships  their  anchors  weigh, 

Freighted  writh  his  priceless  ore. 
But  my  tears  will  sometimes  flow, 

Thinking  of  the  mossy  rocks 
Where  we  sat,  so  long  ago, 

I  and  Ulna,  keeping  flocks. 


WASHING  THE  SHEEP. 

Oh,  Jesse  go  and  wash  the  sheen — 

The  hills  are  white  with  May. 
The  mossy  brook  is  brimming  full — 

T  is  shearing  time  to-day. 
And  I  will  bring  my  spinning-wheel. 

And  tie  the  bands  anew, 
And  when  to-night,  the  lilac  buds 

Break  open  with  the  dew, 
I  '11  come  and  meet  you,  as  I  used, 

The  summer  eves  ago, 
When  first  you  loved  me,  Jesse  dear- 

Or  when  you  told  me  so." 

Twas  Emily,  the  fair  young  wife 

Of  Jesse  thus  who  spake ; 
Anil,  kissing  her,  he  straight  became 

A  shepherd  tor  her  sake. 
She  heard  hirn  singing  to  the  sheep, 

Across  the  hills,  all  day, 
As  one  by  one  he  plunged  them  in 

The  rainy  bn»<»k  of  May. 
Hut  ere  the  eve,  the  shadows  fell, 

The  sun  in  do  gone, 

259 


2G0  WASHING     THE     SHEEP. 

And  dreary  through  the  western  woods, 
The  windy  night  came  on. 

Her  gold  curls  beaten  straight  beneath 

The  rain  that  wildly  drove, 
Sad  Emily  along  the  hills 

Went  calling  to  her  love  ; 
And  calling  by  the  brooks  of  May, 

The  grassy  brooks  o'erfull, 
What  sees  she  'mid  the  new-washed  lambs, 

Gleam  whiter  than  their  wool  ? 
Oh  never  winter  frost,  nor  ice, 

So  filled  her  heart  with  dread ; 
And  never  kissed  she  living  love 

As  then  she  kissed  the  dead ! 


GEORGE  BURROUGHS. 

Oh,  dark  as  the  creeping  of  shadows, 

At  night,  o'er  the  burial  hill, 
When  the  pulse  in  the  stony  artery 

Of  the  bosom  of  earth  is  still — 
When  the  sky,  through  its  frosty  curtain, 

Shows  the  glitter  of  many  a  J  amp, 
Burning  in  brightness  and  stillness, 

Like  the  fire  of  a  far-off  camp — 
Must  have  been  the  thoughts  of  the  martyr, 

Of  the  jeers  and  the  taunting  scorn, 
And  the  cunning  trap  of  the  gallows. 

That  waited  his  feet  at  morn, 
As,  down  in  his  lonesome  dungeon 

The  hours  trooped  silent  and  slow, 
Like  sentinels  through  the  thick  dark' 

Hard  by  the  tents  of  the  fi 

purer  hearts  or  more  heroic  spirits  ever  perished  at  I 
-  and  broken  on  the  wheel  of  bigotry  during  th<  I '< rn>r. 

Among  them,  I  would  instance  the  Rev.  Gei    [  !  with 

and   for  his  repentant  m 

•..on  demonstrated  the  righ  -v.  Cotton  Mather. 

ich  be  was  conveyed  in  an 

•  J    by  the   hai  •;  to  a  rocky 

.:   on   by  the 
i 

26  J 


262  GEORGE     BURROUGHS. 

Could  he  hear  the  voices  of  music 

Which  thrilled  that  deep  heart  of  gloom  % 
Or  see  the  sorrowful  beauty 

That  meekly  leaned  by  the  tomb  ? 
Could  he  note  in  the  cold  and  thin  shadow 

That  swept  through  his  prison  bars, 
The  white  hand  of  the  pure  seraph 

That  beckoned  him  to  the  stars. 
As,  roused  to  the  stony  rattle 

Of  the  hangman's  open  cart, 
He  smothered,  till  only  God  heard  it, 

The  piercing  cry  of  his  heart  ? 
Can  Christ's  mercy  wash  back  to  whiteness 

The  feet  his  raiment  that  trod, 
Whose  soul,  from  that  dark  persecution, 

Went  up  to  the  bosom  of  God  ? 
Hath  he  forgiveness,  who  shouted, 

"  Righteously  do  ye,  and  well, 
To  quench  in  blood,  hot  and  smoking, 

This  firebrand,  which  is  of  hell  ?" 

Over  fields  moistened  thus  darkly 
Wave  harvests  of  tolerance  now — 

But  the  tombstones  of  the  old  mart  v  ra 
Sharpened  the  share  of  the  plough ! 


LUTHER. 

Oh  ages !  add  with  reverend  light 
New  splendors  to  the  name  of  him 

Who  fought  for  conscience  a  good  fight, 
And  sung  for  truth  the  morning  hymn ! 

Who,  when  old  sanctions  like  a  flood 
Drove  wrathful  on,  to  work  his  fell, 

Put  forth  his  single  hand  and  stood 
Sublimer,  mightier  than  they  all. 

1.  from  all  precedent  apart, 
The  double  challenge  to  prefer — 
A  conflict  with  his  own  weak  heart 
As  well  as  with  the  powers  that  were. 

Who  spake,  and,  speaking,  clave  in  twain 
The  mocking  symbols  in  his  way  ; 

Who  [.rayed,  and  scoffing  tongues  grow  fain 
To  pray  the  prayers  they  heard  him  pray. 

Who,  guided  by  a  righteous  aim. 

Enkindled  with  his  mortal  breath 
A  beacon,  on  the  clifis  of  fame, 

icrooa  the  wastes  of  death  ; 

263 


204  LUTHER. 

From  cell  to  old  cathedral  height, 
From  cowled  monk  to  vestal  nun, 

As,  through  the  cloudy  realms  of  night, 
The  fiery  seams  of  daybreak  run — 

Till  in  the  pilgrim's  way,  the  reeds 
Like  unto  strong  red  cedars  thrive, 

And  free  from  wrappings  of  old  creeds 
The  corpse  of  thought  stands  up  alive. 

Gone  from  the  watchings  of  the  night, 
The  wrestling  might  of  lonely  prayers  ;- 

Oh,  ages  !  add  your  reverend  light 
To  the  great  glory  that  he  "bears ! 


THE   EVENING   WALK. 

11  Mother,  see  my  cottage  bonnet ! 

Never  was  it  bleached  so  white; 
1  have  put  fresh  ribbons  on  it, 

And  three  roses,  for  to-night. 
Think  you,  mother,  they  will  fade 
For  a  half  hour  in  the  shade?  " 
'T  w  as  the  coaxing  Adelaide 

Thus  who  said,  the  bonnet  tying 
Close  about  her  golden  hair. 

Waiting  not  for  a  replying 
To  her  question,  she  must  wear 

The  new  ribbons  and  the  flowers — 
None  would  see  them — 't  was  her  mood 
On  the  hill-side  near  the  wood 

She  would  be  the  next  two  hours. 
u  If  you  want  me,  mother  dear — 
Call,  I  shall  be  sure  to  hear." 

-  iid  joyous  Adelaide — 
Pretty,  Bel£deceiving  maid. 

Many  times  before  that  day 

-one  the  self-same  way, 

12  20o 


266  THE     EVENING     WALK. 

Singing,  skipping  here  and  there, 
Where  a  daisy  bloomed,  or  where 
Patches  of  bright  grasses  lay. 
She  would  pout  if  you  should  say 
Sweeter  music  twilight  cheers 
Than  the  birds  make,  and  with  tears 
Tell  you,  it  is  not  the  truth 
She  has  ever  seen  a  youth 
Driving  cattle  any  night 
Down  a  meadow  full  in  sight — 
Down  a  meadow  thick  with  flowers 
Driving  cattle,  brown  and  white, 

Slowly  towards  a  shallow  well, 
Hedged  with  lilies  all  around, 

Brighter  than  the  speckled  shell 
Of  the  "  sweet  beast"  Hermes  found. 

What  deceitful  hearts  are  ours  ! 

For  'tis  true,  say  all  she  can. 

That  the  farm-boy,  Corolan, 
Drives  at  night  his  cattle  so — 
Silent  sometimes  drives  them,  slow — 
Sometimes  trilling  songs  of  glee — 

Treading  very  near  the  shade 
Where,  unconscious,  it  may  be, 

Sits  the  blushing  Adelaide. 
The  huge  leader  of  the  flock 

Often  with  a  golden  strand, 
Made  of  oat  straw,  gaily  bound 
His  black  forehead  round  and  round, 


THE      E  V  E  X  1  N  G      W  A  I.  K  . 

Close  to  Corolan  doth  walk, 
Gently  guided  by  his  hand. 

Haply  't  is  but  for  the  pleasing 
Of  his  own  eyes  he  doth  make 
The  gold  cordage,  and  for  sake 
Of  the  green  and  flowery  dells 
Hi?  white  oxen  wear  the  bells, 

And  the  song  may  be  for  easing 
A  young  heart  that  loves  the  flowing 

Of  soft  sounds  in  solitudes, 
And  the  lonesome  echoes  going 

Like  lost  poets  through  the  woods. 
Or  all  haply,  happens  so — 

For  the  maiden  says  with  tears, 

"  On  the  white  necks  of  the  steers 
Silver  bells  make  music  low 
When  the  pastured  cattle  go 
Toward  the  spring — but  not  a  sound 
Sweeter,  ever  echoes  round  " — 

So  it  cannot  be  she  hears  ! 
And  if  thither  Corolan  strays, 
She  has  seen  him  not,  she  says ; 
And  if  eyes  so  bold  and  bright 

As  you  hint  of,  pierced  the  shade, 
She  would  not  be  night  by  night 

On  the  hill  side. 

Adelaide 
Surely  would  not  so  declare 
ll*  she  saw  young  Corolan  tin 


267 


268  MY     MOTHER. 

So  we  will  not  wrong  the  maid 
Guessing  why  the  cottage  bonnet 
Had  fresh  flowers  and  ribbons  on  it. 
Or  for  what  the  hill  side  shade 
Pleased  her — beauteous  Adelaide. 


MY  MOTHER. 

'T  wtas  in  the  autumn's  dreary  close, 

A  long,  long  time  ago  : 
The  berries  of  the  brier-rose 

Hung  bright  above  the  snow, 
And  night  had  spread  a  shadow  wild 

About  the  earth  and  sky, 
When,  calling  me  her  orphan  child, 

She  said  that  she  must  die. 

She  rests  within  the  quiet  tomb, 

The  narrow  and  the  chill — 
The  window  of  our  cabin  home 

Looks  out  upon  the  hill. 
Oh,  when  the  world  seems  wild  and  wide, 

And  friends  to  love  me  few, 
I  think  of  how  she  lived  and  died, 

And  gather  strength  anew. 


LAST  SOxNG. 


The  beetle  from  the  furrow  goes, 
The  bird  is  on  the  sheltering  limb, 

And  in  the  twilight's  pallid  close 

Sits  the  gray  evening,  hushed  and  dim. 

In  the  blue  west  the  sun  is  down, 
And  soft  the  fountain  washes  o'er 

Green  limes  and  hyacinths  so  brown 
As  never  fountain  washed  before. 

I  scarce  can  hear  the  curlew  call, 

I  scarce  can  feel  the  night-wind's  breath  ; 

I  only  see  the  shadows  fall, 
1  only  feel  this  chill  is  death. 

At  morn  the  bird  will  leave  the  bough, 
The  beetle  o'er  the  furrow  run, 

But  with  the  darkness  falling  now, 
The  morning  for  my  eyes  is  done. 

Piping  his  ditty  low  and  soft, 

If  shepherd  chance  to  cross  the  wold, 

Bound  homeward  from  the  flowery  croft, 
And  the  white  tendance  of  his  fold, 

20  (J 


270  WEARINESS. 

And  find  me  lying  fast  asleep, 
Be  inspiration  round  him  thrown, 

That  he  may  dig  my  grave  down  deep, 
Where  never  any  sunshine  shone. 


WEARINESS. 

Gentle,  gentle  sisters  twain, 
I  am  sad  with  toil  and  pain, 
Hoping,  struggling,  all  in  vain, 
And  would  be  with  you  again. 

Sick  and  weary,  let  me  go 
To  our  homestead,  old  and  low, 
Where  the  cool,  fresh  breezes  blow- 
There  I  shall  be  well,  I  know. 

Violets,  gold,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Sprout  up  sweetly  through  the  dew- 
Lilacs  now  are  budding,  too — 
Oh,  I  pine  to  be  with  you  ! 

I  am  lonely  and  unblest — 
I  am  weary,  and  would  rest 
Where  all  things  are  brightest,  best, 
In  the  lovely;  lovely  West. 


PERVERSITY. 

If  thy  weak,  puny  hand  might  reach  away 
And  rend  out  lightnings  from  the  clouds  to-day, 
At  little  pains,  as,  with  a  candle  flame 

Touching  the  flax  upon  my  distaff  here 
Would  fill  the  house  with  light,  it  were  the  same — 
A  little  thing  to  do.     It  is  the  far 
Makes  half  the  poet's  passion  for  the  star, 

The  while  he  treads  the  shining  dewdrop  near. 

Of  mortal  weaknesses  I  have  my  share — 

Pining  and  longing,  and  the  madman's  fit 
Of  groundless  hatreds,  blindest  loves,  despair- 
But  in  this  rhymed  musing  I  have  writ 
Of  an  infirmity  that  is  not  mine  : 
My  heart's  dear  idol  were  not  less  divine 
That  no  grave  gaped  between  us,  black  and  steep ; 
Though,  if  it  were  so,  I  could  overswcp 

It>  gulf — all  gulfs — though  ne'er  so  widely  riven  ; 
Or  from  hot  desert  sands  dig  out  sweet  springs  ; 
For  I  believe,  and  I  have  still  believed, 
That  Love  may  even  fold  its  milk-white  \vin<_'s 
In  the  red  bosom  of  hell,  nor  up  to  heaven 

the  distance  with  one  thought  aggrieved. 
271 


272  WHEN     MY     LOVE     AND     I     LIE     DEAD. 

Why  should  I  tear  my  flesh,  and  bruise  my  feet, 
Climbing  for  roses,  when,  from  where  I  stand, 
Down  the  green  meadow  I  may  reach  my  hand, 

And  pluck  them  off  as  well  1 — sweet,  very  sweet 
This  world  which  God  has  made  about  us  lies, — 
Shall  we  reproach  him  with  unthankful  eyes  ? 


WHEN    MY   LOVE    AND   I    LIE   DEAD. 

When  my  love  and  I  lie  dead, 

Both  together  on  one  bed, 

Shall  it  first  be  truly  said, 

"  Fate  was  kindly  :  they  are  wed  !" 

When  they  come  the  shroud  to  make 
Some  sweet  soul  shall  say,  "  Awake 
Erom  your  long  white  sleep,  and.  take 


And  though  we  nor  see  nor  hear — 
Safe  from  sorrow — safe  from  fear, 
Both  together  on  one  bier, 
We  shall  feel  each  other  near. 

Oh  my  lover,  oh  my  friend, 
This  I  know  will  be  the  end — ■ 
Only  when  our  ashes  blend 
Will  our  heavy  fortunes  mend. 


HIDDEN    LIGHT 

The  rain  is  beating  sullenly  to-night ; 

The  wild  red  flowers  like  flames  are  drenched  away  ; 
Down  through  the  gaps  of  the  black  woods  the  light 

Strikes  cold  and  dismal.     Only  yesterday 
It  Beema  since  Spring  along  the  neighboring  mo<>r 

Washed  up  the  daisies,  and  the  barks  of  trees 
Cracked  with  green  buds,  while  at  my  cabin  door 

The  brier  hung  heavy  with  the  yellow  be 

Now  all  is  blank  :  the  wind  climbs  drearily 

kinst  the  hills,  the  pastures  close  are  browse  I ; 
Snakes  slip  in  gaps  of  earth,  gray  crickets  cry. 

Ants  cease  from  running,  and  the  bat  is  housed. 
No   bright  star,  throbbing  through  the  dark,  on<- 

Of  comfort  sends  me  from  its  home  above — 
I  only  see  the  splendor  of  a  dream, 

8    wly  and  Badly  fading  out  of  love. 

I  only  see  the  wild  boughs  as  they  blow 

inst  my  window,  Bee  the  purple  slant 
Of  twilight  shadows  into  dark 

.  the  whistling  March  will  plant 
12*  273 


DEVOTION. 


The  April  meadows,  wheat  fields  will  grow  bright 
In  their  own  time,  the  king-cups  in  their  day 

Come  through  the  grass  ;  and  somewhere  there  is  Light 
If  my  weak  thoughts  could  strike  upon  the  way. 


DEVOTION. 

Within  a  silver  wave  of  cloud 
The  yellow  sunset  light  was  staid, 

As  on  the  daisied  turf  she  bowed  : 
I  saw  and  loved  her  as  she  prayed — 

Thy  holy  will  on  earth  be  done, 

As  in  the  heavens,  all-hallowed  One ! 

No  evil  word  her  lip  had  learned  ; 

Her  heart  with  love  was  overfull ; 
No  scarlet  sinfulness  had  turned 

Her  garment  from  the  look  of  wool : 
Give  us,  oh  Lord,  our  daily  bread ; 
Keep  us  and  guide  us  home,  she  said. 

No  violet,  with  head  so  low, 

Were  sweetly  meek  as  she  in  prayer ; 
Nor  rising  from  the  April  snow 

A  daffodilly,  half  so  fair, 
As  her  uprising  from  the  sod, 
Fresh  from  communion  with  her  God. 


PROPHECY. 

I  think  thou  lovest  me — yet  a  prophet  said 

To-day,  Elhadra,  if  thou  laidest  dead, 
From  thy  white  forehead  would  he  fold  the  shroud. 

And  crown  thee  with  his  kisses.     Nay,  not  so — 
The  love  that  to  thy  living  presence  bowed, 

When  death  shall  claim  thee  will  be  quick  to  go. 
Shall  the  wood  fall  to  ashes,  and  the  flame, 

Feeding  on  nothing,  live  and  burn  the  same  ?" 

So,  with  my  large  faith  unto  gloom  allied, 

Sprang  up  a  shadow  sunshine  could  not  quell. 
And  the  voice  said,  Would'st  haste  to  go  outside 

This  continent  of  being,  it  were  well — 
Where  finite,  growing  toward  the  Infinite, 

Its  robe  of  glory  gathers  out  of  dust, 
And,  looking  down  the  radiances  white, 

Sees  all  God's  purposes  about  us,  just. 

Canst  thou,  Elhadra,  reach  out  of  the  grai 
And  draw  the  golden  waters  of  love's  well  ? 

Hi*  years  are  chrisms  of  brightness  in  time's  wave  - 
Thine  are  as  dewdrope  in  the  nightshade's  bell ! 


27--, 


276  LIGHT     AND     LOVE. 

Then  straightening  in  my  hands  the  rippled  length 

Of  all  my  tresses,  slowly,  one  by  one, 
I  took  the  flowers  out.     Dear  one,  in  thy  strength 

Pray  for  my  weakness.     Thou  hast  seen  the  sun, 
Large  in  the  setting,  drive  a  column  of  light, 

Down  through  the  darkness ;  so,  within  death's  night, 
Oh,  my  beloved !  when  I  shall  have  gone, 
If  it  might  be  so,  would  my  love  burn  on. 


LIGHT  AND  LOVE. 

Light  waits  for  us  in  heaven :  Inspiring  thought ! 

That  when  the  darkness  all  is  overpast, 
The  beauty  which 'the  Lamb  of  God  has  bought 

Shall  flow  about  our  saved  souls  at  last, 
And  wrap  them  from  all  night-time  and  all  woe  : 
The  spirit  and  the  word  assure  us  so. 

Love  lives  for  us  in  heaven  :  Oh,  not  so  sweet 
Is  the  May  dew  which  mountain  flowers  inclose 

Nor  golden  raining  of  the  winnowed  wheat, 
Nor  blushing  out  of  the  brown  earth,  of  rose, 

Or  whitest  lily,  as,  beyond  time's  wars, 

The  silvery  rising  of  these  two  twin  stars  ! 


A  RETROSPECT. 

Down  in  the  west,  the  sunset  gold 

Is  fading  from  the  sombre  cloud, 
And  a  fixed  sorrow,  hushed  and  cold, 

Is  closing  round  me  like  a  shroud ; 
Closing  with  thoughts  of  twilight  hours, 

When  gaily,  on  the  homestead  hill, 
Two  children  played  among  the  flowers — 

I  would  that  they  were  children  still. 

For  as  I  scan  with  tear-dimmed  eyes 

The  future,  till  life's  sun  hangs  low, 
No  white  hand  reaches  from  the  skies, 

With  chrisms  of  healing  for  our  wo. 
Ami  though  it  may  be  either  mind 

Has  grown  with  toil  and  years  and  strife, 
Experience,  like  a  blightning  wind, 

Has  made  a  barren  waste  of  life — 

A  barren  waste,  whose  reach  of  sands 

Lies  glowing  in  the  noontide  heat, 
Where  no  bright  tree  of  blossoms  >tan<ls, 
Dropping  cool  shadows  round  our  feet. 

•ill 


THE   HOMELESS. 

As  down  on  the  wing  of  the  raven, 

Or  drops  on  the  upas-tree  lie, 
So  darkness  and  blight  are  around  me 

To-night,  I  can  scarcely  tell  why  ! 

Alone  in  the  populous  city  ! 

No  hearth  for  my  coming  is  warm, 
And  the  stars,  the  sweet  stars,  are  all  hidden 

Away  in  the  cloud  and  the  storm  ! 

The  thoughts  of  all  things  that  are  saddest, 
The  phantoms  unbidden  that  start 

From  the  ashes  of  hopes  that  have  perished, 
Are  with  me  to-night  in  my  heart ! 

Alas  !  in  this  desolate  sorrow, 

The  moments  are  heavy  and  long  ; 

And  the  white-pinioned  spirit  of  Fancy 
Is  weary,  and  hushes  her  song. 

One  word  of  the  commonest  kindness 
Could  make  all  around  me  seem  bright 

As  birds  in  the  haunts  of  the  summer, 
Or  lights  in  a  village  at  night. 

278 


A  PRAYER. 

Forgive  me,  God !  forgive  thy  child,  I  pray, 

And  if  I  sin,  thy  holy  spirit  move 
My  heart  to  better  moods  :  I  cannot  say, 

Disjoin  my  human  heart  from  human  love  ! 

If,  in  the  rainy  woods,  the  traveler  sees, 

Through  some  black  gap,  a  splendor  fair  and  white, 
Shining  beneath  the  wild  rough-rinded  trees, 

J  lis  steps  turn  thither.     Through  the  infinite 

Of  darkness  that  would  else  be,  as  we  pass 
from  silenee  into  silence,  round  our  way, 

Love  shineth  so.     Doth  not  the  mower  stay 
Jii>  scythe,  if  that  a  bird  be  in  the  grass  \ 

If  God  be  love,  then  love  is  likest  God, 
And  our  low  natures  the  divineness  mock, 

If.  when  we  hear  the  blest  :i  Arise  and  walk," 
\\  e  turn  our  faces  back  against  the  sod. 

The  plowman,  tired,  among  the  furrowed  corn, 
'i-  on  tin-  ox's  shoulder;  done  with  play, 
Childhood  among  the  daisies  drops  away 
lnt<>  the  lap  of  sleep,  and  dreams  till  morn. 

279 


280  KINDNESS. 

It  is  as  if,  when  angels  had  their  birth, 
The  one  with  heaviest  glory  on  its  wings, 

Dropt  from  its  proper  sphere  into  the  earth, 
Where,  piteous  of  our  mortal  needs,  it  sings. 

Sings  sweeter  melodies  than  winds  do  make, 
Playing  their  dulcimers  for  the  young  May  ; 

Blessed  Forever  !  if  sometimes  I  take 

Their  beauty  round  my  heart — forgive,  I  pray  ! 


KINDNESS. 

In  the  dull  shadows  of  long  hopeless  strife 
I  talked  with  sorrow — round  about  me  lay 

The  broken  plans  and  promises  of  life, — 

When  first  thy  Kindness  crossed  my  friendless  way. 

Then  felt  I,  hushed  with  wonder  and  sweet  awe, 
As  with  his  weary  banners  round  him  furled 

Felt  ocean's  wanderer,  when  first  he  saw 
The  pale-lipt  billows  kissing  a  new  world. 

The  joy,  the  rapture  of  that  glad  surprise, 

Haply  some  heart  may  know  that  inly  grieves, 

Some  sad  Ruth  bowing  from  love-speaking  eyes 
Her  trembling  bosom  over  alien  sheaves. 


ENJOY. 

That  the  dear  tranced  Pleasures  of  a  night  . 

Puts  on  her  hood  of  thorns  at  break  of  day — 
og  the  cornfields,  and  the  hedges  gay 

With  honeysuckles,  straight:  her  feet,  so  white, 
Buried  down  deep  in  dust — aside  from  all 

The  sweet  birds  making  love-songs  in  the  woods, 
The  way-side  cottage  with  its  cold  green  wall 

<  )f  moss  against  the  sun,  the  fennel  buds 
Fringing  the  hay-fields — all  of  us  do  know  ; 

And  vet,  for  that  we  are  not  always  blest, 
Shall  we  be  always  weepers,  and  so  burn 

Our  dainty  bodies,  slacking  with  our  tears 
The  scorched  stones  our  stumblings  overturn, 

And  making  double  measurements  of  woe1? 
Xav.  1  do  rather  deem  that  road  the  b 

Which  hath  good  inns  beside;  where  oftenest  cheers 
The  well,  where  man  and  beast  may  drink  their  fill, 

Nor  Btint  belated  travellers  one  whit ; 
And  all  the  hou>e  is  with  white  candles  lit 
When  day  burns  down,  ami   where  the  housewifi 

1  [ath  some  red  earthen  pot  of  marigolds 

That  l<>ok  like  sunshine  when  the  withered  wolds 

2bl 


282 


APRIL. 


Are  under  the  flat  snow.  For  is  it  wrong 
If  human  needs  have  human  comforting  1 

Or  shall  the  sweetness  of  our  winter  song 
Keep  the  green  April  buds  from  blossoming  ? 


APRIL. 


If,  in  the  sunshine  of  this  April  morn, 
Thick  as  the  furrows  of  the  unsown  corn. 
I  saw  the  grave-mounds  darkening  in  the  way 
That  I  have  come,  1  would  not  therefore  lay 
My  brow  against  their  shadows.     Sadly  brown 
May  fade  the  boughs  once  blowing  brightly  down 
About  my  playing  ;  never  any  more 
May  fall  my  knocking  on  the  homestead  door, 
And  never  more  the  wild  birds  (pretty  things) 
Against  my  yellow  primrose  beds  their  wings 
May  nearly  slant,  as  singing  toward  the  woods 
They  fly  in  summer.     Shall  I  hence  take  moods 

Of  moping  melancholy — sobbings  wild 
For  the  blue  modest  eyes,  that  sweetly  lit 
All  my  lost  youth  %     Nay  !  though  this  rhyme  were  writ 

By  funeral  torches,  I  would  yet  have  smiled 
Betwixt  the  verses.     God  is  good,  I  know  ; 
And  though  in  this  bad  soil  a  time  we  grow 

Crooked  and  ugly,  all  the  ends  of  things 


AT     THE     GRAVE.  283 

Must  be  in  beauty.     Love  can  work  no  ill  ; 

And  though  we  see  the  shadow  of  its  wings 
Only  at  times,  shall  we  not  trust  it  still ! 

ven  for  the  dead  I  will  not  bind 
My  soul  to  grief:  Death  cannot  long  divide  ; 

For  is  it  not  as  if  the  rose  that  climbed 
My  garden  wall,  had  bloomed  the  other  side  1 


AT    THE   GRAVE. 


The  grass  grew  green  between  us,  and  I  said 
There  is  no  soul  to  love  me — peace  is  lost ; 
Over  my  heavy  heart  my  hands  I  crossed, 

And  mourned  the  sun  away  :  "  She  is  not  dead 

But  sleepeth  only  ;  time  is  as  a  wall 

'Where  death  makes  rents,  and  thro'  which  come  and  go 
Hourly,  the  >|>irits  which  ye  mourn  for  so, 

Faithless,  and  faint,  and  blind."     As  if  a  call 

Came  out  of  heaven,  I  lifted  up  my  e\ 

And  thought  to  Bee  white  wings  along  the  air  ; 
rs,  the  single  moon,  were  there — 

S     ing  not,  I  felt,  the  might  that  deifies. 


284  AT     THE     GRAVE. 

The  darkness  had  the  quality  of  light ; 

I  knew  no  soul  that  God  had  made  could  die — 

That  time  is  knitted  to  eternity, 
And  finite  drawn  into  the  Infinite. 

The  violets  of  seven  bright  times  of  bloom 
Lay  purple  in  the  moonlight  as  before, 
But  I,  who  came  a  mourner,  mourned  no  more  ; 

An  angel  had  been  sitting  at  the  tomb — 

The  stone  was  rolled  away.     A  temple  gate, 
O'errun  with  flowers,  and  shining  with  the  light 
Of  altar-fires,  life  seemed  to  me  that  night, 

Where,  for  the  marriage  crowning,  lovers  wait. 


MULBERRY  HILL. 

Oh,  sweet  was  the  eve  when  I  came  from  the  mill, 
Adown  the  green  windings  of  Mulberry  hill : 
My  heart  like  a  bird  with  its  throat  all  in  tune, 
That  sings  in  the  beautiful  bosom  of  June. 

For  there,  at  her  spinning,  beneath  a  broad  tree, 

By  a  rivulet  shining  and  blue  as  the  sea, 

First  I  saw  my  Mary — her  tiny  feet  bare, 

And  the  buds  of  the  sumach  among  her  black  hair. 

They  called  me  a  bold  enough  youth,  and  I  would 
Have  kept  the  name  honestly  earned,  if  I  could; 
But,  somehow,  the  song  I  had  whistled  was  hushed, 
And,  spite  of  my  manhood,  I  felt  that  I  blushed. 

I  would  tell  you,  but  words  cannot  paint  my  delight, 
When  Bhe  nave  the  red  buds  for  a  garland  of  white, 
Wln-ii  her  cheek  with  soft  blushes — but  no,  'tis  in  vain! 
Enough  that  I  loved,  and  she  loved  me  again. 

Three  summers  bai  i  id  gone  by  with  their  charms, 

And  a  smiles  in  my  arms, 

b  lips  like  the  rosebud  and  locks  softly  light 
As  the  flax  which  my  Mary  was  spinning  that  night. 

285 


286  A     RUSTIC      PLAINT. - 

And  in  the  dark  shadows  of  Mulberry  Hill, 

By  the  grass-covered  road  where  I  came  from  the  mill 

And  the  rivulet  shining  and  blue  as  the  sea, 

My  Mary  lies  sleeping  beneath  the  broad  tree. 


A  RUSTIC  PLAINT. 

Since  thou,  my  dove,  didst  level  thy  wild  wings 
To  goodlier  shelter  than  my  cabin  makes, 
I  wrork  with  heavy  hands,  as  one  wrho  breaks 

The  flax  to  spin  a  shroud  of.     April  rings 

With  silvery  showers,  smiles  light  the  face  of  May, 
The  thistle's  prickly  leaves  are  lined  with  wool, 
And  their  gray  tops  of  purple  burs  set  full ; 

Quails  through  the  stubble  run.     From  day  to  clay 

Through  these  good  seasons  I  have  sadly  mused, 
The  very  stars,  thou  knowest,  sweet,  for  what, 
Draw  their  red  flames  together,  standing  not 

About  the  mossy  gables  as  they  used. 

No  more  I  dread  the  winds,  though  ne'er  so  rough : 
Better  the  withered  bole  should  prostrate  lie ; — 
Only  the  ravens  in  its  black  limbs  cry, 

And  better  birds  will  find  green  boughs  enough. 


THE  SPIRIT-HAUNTED. 

0"er  the  dark  woods,  surging,  solemn, 

Hung  the  new  moon's  silver  ring ; 
And  in  white  and  naked  beauty, 

Out  from  Twilight's  luminous  wing, 
Peered  the  first  star  of  the  eve  ;— ■ 
"T  was  the  time  when  poets  weave 
Radiant  songs  of  love's  sweet  passion, 

In  the  loom  of  thought  sublime, 
And  with  throbbing,  quick  pulsations 

Beat  the  golden  web  of  rhyme. 


On  a  hillside  very  lonely 

With  the  willows'  dewy  flow 
Shutting  down  like  sombre  curtains 

Round  the  silent  beds  below, 
Where  the  lip  from  love  is  bound. 
And  the  forehead  napkin-crowned, — 
I  beheld  the  spirit-haunted — 

his  wild  eyes  burn  like  fire, 
his  thin  hands,  clasped  together, 

Crush  the  frail  strings  of  his  lyre, 
As,  upon  a  dream  of  splendor 

His  abraded  son]  toed, 


1 


288  THE     SPIRIT     HAUNTED. 

And  across  the  heart's  sad  ruins 

Winged  imaginations  reached 

Toward  the  glory  of  the  skies — 

Toward  the  love  that  never  dies. 

In  a  tower,  shadow-laden, 

With  a  casement  high  and  dim, 

Years  agone  there  dwelt  a  maiden, 
Loving  and  beloved  by  him. 

But  while  singing  sweet  one  day 

A  bold  masker  crossed  her  way. 

Then— her  bosom  softly  trembling 
Like  a  star  in  morning's  light — 

Faithless  to  her  mortal  lover 
Fled  she  forth  into  the  night, — 

A  great  feast  for  her  was  spread 

In  the  Kingdom  overhead. 

Woe,  oh  woe  !  for  the  abandoned ; 

Dim  his  mortal  steps  must  be  ; 
Death's  high  priest  his  soul  has  wedded 

Unto  immortality  ! — 
Twilight's  purple  fall,  or  morn, 
Finds  him,  leaves  him,  weary,  lorn. 

In  her  cave  lies  Silence,  hungry 
For  the  beauty  of  his  song  ; 

Echoes,  locked  from  mortal  waking, 
Tremble  as  he  goes  along, 

And  for  love  of  him  pale  maids 

Lean  like  lilies  from  the  shades. 


D  LAL1K. 


But  the  locks  of  love  unwh  < 
From  his  bosom  as  he  may, 

Buries  he  his  soul  of  sorrow 
In  the  cloud-dissolving  day 

Of  the  spirit-peopled  shore 
Ever,  ever,  evermore. 


ULALIE. 

The  crimson  of  the  maple  trees 

Is  lighted  by  the  moon's  soft  glow ; 
Oh,  nights  like  this,  and  things  like  these, 
Bring  back  a  dream  of  long  ago. 

D  an  eve  as  sweet  as  this — 
Upon  this  bank — beneath  this  tree — 
My  lips,  in  love's  impassioned  ki*^, 
i  those  of  Ulalie. 

Softly  as  now  the  dewdrops  burned 
In  the  flu-sh'-'l  bosoms  of  the  flo* 

Backward  almost  seems  time  to  have  turned 
The  golden  axis  of  the  hours, 

Till,  cold  's  beaten  surf, 

Beneath  these  trailing  boughs,  1 

The  whit  -     id  the  faded  turf 

lost  Ulalie. 

13 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  A  MAGDALEN. 

To  be  unpitied,  to  be  weary, 

To  feel  the  nights,  the  daytimes,  dreary, 

To  find  nor  bread  nor  wine  that's  cheery, 

To  live  apart, 
To  be  unneighbored  among  neighbors, 
Sharing  the  burdens  and  the  labors, 
Never  to  have  the  songs  or  tabors 

Gladden  the  heart. 

To  be  a  penitent  forever, 

And  yet  a  sinner — never,  never 

At  peace  with  the  Divine  Forgiver — 

Always  at  prayer, 
Longing  for  Mercy's  white  pavilion, 
Yet  all  the  while  a  stubborn  alien, 
Uprising  proudly  in  rebellion, 

Hell,  Heaven,  to  dare. 

To  feel  all  thoughts  alike  unholy, 
To  count  all  pleasures  but  as  folly, 
To  mope  in  ways  of  melancholy, 
Nor  rest  to  know  ; 
To  be  a  gleaner,  not  a  reaper, 
A  scorner  proud,  a  humble  weeper, 
And  of  no  heart  to  be  the  keeper, 
This  is  my  wo  ! 

200 


DEATH-SONG. 

Frieni>.  if  there  be  any  nenr. 

Is  the  ble««ed  summer  here.  ? 

Is  't  the  full  moon,  are  they  flowers. 

Make  so  bright,  so  sweet  the  hours  1 

Is  "t  the  wind  from  cowslip  beds, 

That  such  fragrance  o'er  me  sheds  ? 

Oh  my  kindred,  do  not  weep ; 
Never  fell  so  sweet  a  sleep 
Over  mortal  eyes.     At  night, 
All  the  hills  with  snow  were  white, 
And  the  tempest  moaning  drear — 
But  I  wake  with  summer  here. 

Haste,  and  take  my  parting  hand ! 
We  are  pushing  from  the  land, 
And  adown  a  lovely  stream 

■  [y  floating — Wt  a  dream  ? 
For  the  oarsman  near  me  sings, 
Keeping  time  with  snowy  wings. 

291 


2l)2  YOUNG     LOVE. 

Stranger,  with  the  wings  of  snow, 
Singing  by  me  as  we  row, 
Tell  my  dear  ones  on  the  shore, 
I  have  need  of  them  no  more ; 
Weeping  will  not  let  them  see 
That  au  angel  goes  with  me. 


YOUNG  LOVE. 

Life  hath  its  memories  lovely, 

That  over  the  heart  are  blown. 
As  over  the  face  of  the  Autumn 

The  light  of  the  summer  flown ; 
Rising  out  of  the  mist  so  chilling, 

That  oft  life's  sky  enshrouds, 
Like  a  new  moon  sweetly  filling 

Among  the  twilight  clouds. 

And  among  them  comes,  how  often, 
Young  love's  unresting  wraith, 

To  lift  lost  hope  out  of  ruins 
To  the  gladness  of  perfect  faith  ; 

Drifting  out  of  the  past  as  lightly 
As  winds  of  the  May -time  flow : 

And  lifting  the  shadows  brightly, 

>  As  the  daffodil  lifts  the  snow. 


MUSINGS  BY  THREE  GRAVES. 

The  dappled  clouds  are  broken ;  bright  and  clear 
Comes  up  the  broad  and  glorious  star  of  day ; 

And  night,  the  shadowy,  like  a  hunted  deer, 
Flies  from  the  close  pursuer  fast  away. 

X-  >w  on  my  ear  a  murmur  faintly  swells, 

And  now  it  gathers  louder  and  more  deep, 
As  the  sweet  music  of  the  village  bells 

ises  the  drowsy  rustic  from  his  sleep 

Hark  !  there  's  a  footstep  startling  up  the  birds, 

And  now  as  softly  steals  the  breeze  along; 
I  hear  the  sound,  and  almost  catch  the  words 
Of  the  sweet  fragment  of  a  pensive  song. 

And  yonder,  in  the  clover-scented  vale — 
Her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  simply  clad 

I  see  the  milkmaid  with  her  flowing  pail: 
Alas  !    what  is  it  makes  her  song  so  sari  \ 

In  the  seclusion  of  these  Lowly  dells 

What  mournful  Lesson  ha-  her  bosom  Learned? 
Is  it  tfa  •  memory  of  sad  farewells, 

Or  faithless  Love,  or  friendship  unreturned  i 

293 


294  MUSINGS     BY     THREE     GRAVES. 

Methinks  yon  sunburnt  swain,  with  knotted  thong, 
And  rye-straw  hat  slouched  careless  on  his  brow, 

Whistled  more  loudly,  passing  her  along, 
To  yoke  his  patient  oxen  to  the  plough. 

'Tis  all  in  vain !  she  heeds  not,  if  she  hears, 
And,  sadly  musing,  separate  ways  they  go, — • 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  how  many  bitter  tears 
Are  mingled  in  the  brightest  fount  below  ? 

Poor,  simple  tenant  of  another's  lands. 
Vexed  with  no  dream  of  heraldic  renown  ; 

No  more  the  earnings  of  his  sinewy  hands 
Shall  make  his  spirit  like  the  thistle's  down. 

Smile  not,  recipient  of  a  happier  fate, 

And  haply  better  formed  life's  ills  to  bear, 

If  e'er  you  pause  to  read  the  name  and  date 
Of  one  who  died  the  victim  of  despair. 

Now  morn  is  fully  up ;  and  while  the  dew 
From  off  her  sunny  locks  is  brightly  shed, 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  solemn  yew, 
I  sit  alone  and  muse  above  the  dead. 

Not  with  the  blackbird  whistling  in  the  brake, 
Nor  when  the  rabbit  lightly  near  them  treads, 

Shall  they  from  their  deep  slumbering  awake, 
Who  lie  beneath  me  in  their  narrow  beds. 

Oh,  what  is  life  1  at  best  a  narrow  bound, 

Where  each  that  lives  some  baffled  hope  survives — 

A  search  for  something,  never  to  be  found, 
Records  the  history  of  the  greatest  lives ! 


MUSINGS     BY     THREE     GRAVES.  295 

There  is  a  haven  for  each  weary  bark, 

A  port  where  they  who  rest  are  tree  from  sin  ; 

But  we,  like  children  trembling  in  the  dark. 
Drive  on  and  on,  afraid  to  enter  in. 

Here  lies  an  aged  patriarch  at  rest, 

T<  i  whom  the  needy  never  vainly  cried, 
Till  in  this  vale,  with  toil  and  years  oppressed, 

His  long-sustaining  staff  was  laid  aside. 

Oft  for  his  country  had  he  fought  and  bled, 
And  gladly,  when  the  lamp  of  life  grew  dim, 

He  joined  the  silent  army  of  the  dead — 

Then  why  should  tears  of  sorrow  flow  for  him  \ 

We  mourn  not  for  the  cornfield's  deepening  gold, 
\    r  when  the  sickle  on  the  hills  is  plied ; 

And  wherefore  should  we  sorrow  for  the  old, 

Who  perish  when  life's  paths  have  all  been  tried? 

How  oft  at  noon,  beneath  the  orchard  trees, 

With  browr  serene  and  venerably  fair, 
I've  seen  a  little  prattler  on  his  knees 

Smoothing  with  dimpled  hand  his  silver  hair. 

When  music  floated  on  the  sunny  hills, 

And  trees  and  shrubs  with  opening  flowers  weredrest, 

She  meekly  put  aside  life's  cup  of  ills, 

And  kindly  neighbors  laid  her  here  to  rest. 

And  ye  who  loved  her,  would  ye  call  her  back, 
Where  its  deep  thirst  the  >>>u]  may  never  slake; 

And  Sorrow,  witli  her  lean  and  hungry  pack, 
Pursues  through  every  winding  which  we  take  \ 


296  MUSINGS     BY     THREE     GRAVES. 

Where  lengthened  years  but  teach  the  bitter  truth 
That  transient  preference  does  not  make  a  friend ; 

That  manhood  disavows  the  love  of  youth, 
And  riper  years  of  manhood,  to  the  end. 
• 

Beneath  this  narrow  heap  of  mouldering  earth, 

Hard  by  the  mansions  of  the  old  and  young, 
A  wife  and  mother  sleeps,  whose  humble  worth 
And  quiet  virtues  poet  never  sung. 

With  yonder  cabin,  half  with  ivy  veiled, 
And  children  by  the  hand  of  mercy  sent, 

And  love's  sweet  star,  that  never,  never  paled, 
Her  bosom  knew  the  fulness  of  content. 

Mocking  ambition  never  came  to  tear 
The  finest  fibres  from  her  heart  away, — 

The  aim  of  her  existence  was  to  bear 

The  cross  in  patient  meekness  day  by  day. 

No  hopeless,  blind  idolater  of  chance, 

The  sport  and  plaything  of  each  wind,  that  blows, 
But  lifting  still  by  faith  a  heavenward  glance, 

She  saw  the  waves  of  death  around  her  close. 

And  here  her  children  come  with  pious  tears, 
And  strew  their  simple  offerings  in  the  sod ; 

And  learn  to  tread  like  her  the  vale  of  years, 
Beloved  of  man,  and  reconciled  to  God. 

Now  from  the  village  school  the  urchins  come, 
And  shout  and  laughter  echo  far  and  wide ; 

The  blue  smoke  curls  from  many  a  rustic  home, 
Where  all  their  simple  wants  are  well  supplied. 


THE     MORNING.  2(.»7 

The  labored  hedger,  pausing  by  the  way, 

Picks  the  ripe  berries  from  the  gadding  vine: 

The  axe  is  still,  the  cattle  homeward  stray, 
And  transient  glories  mark  the  day's  decline. 


THE  MORNING. 

Break,  morning,  break,  I  weary  of  the  night. 
Longing  to  see  and  know  the  truth  of  things, 
To  gather  faith  up,  as  the  bird  her  wings, 

And  soar  into  the  kingdom,  where  is  light. 

.  oh  Sun !  for  while  the  midnight  lay 
Along  the  path  we  travelled — dense,  profound. 
The  hands  and  feet  of  my  sweet  mate  were  bound, 
And  he  is  prisoned  till  the  break  of  day. 

Shadows,  wild  shadows,  from  the  air  be  gone — 
Where  shaken  boughs  of  golden  lilies  stood, 
Came  up  a  black  impenetrable  wood, 

When  love  was  lost — I  cannot  journey  on. 

By  the  King's  palace  low  my  knees  I  bow. 
On  the  dark  porch  beside  the  palace  white 
Waiting  the  morn  which  shall  husk  out  the  lig 

From  the  thick  shell  of  darkness  round  me  now. 


13* 


AWAKENING. 

His  hair  is  as  white  as  the  snow,  N 

And  I  am  his  only  child — 
(How  the  wild  storm  beats  on  my  chamber  low — ) 

When  we  parted  last  he  smiled. 

He  smiled,  and  his  hand  was  laid 

Like  the  summer  dew  on  my  head — 

(Tis  a  fearful  night,  I  am  half  afraid,) 
God  bless  you,  my  child,  he  said. 

On  the  meadow  the  mist  hung  low, 

The  beauty  of  summer  was  o'er, 
And  the  winds  as  they  went  to  and  fro, 

Shook  the  red-rinded  pears  at  the  door. 

How  well  I  remembered  it  all, 

The  brier-buds  close  at  the  pane, 
And  the  trumpet-vine  tied  to  the  wall — 

I  never  shall  see  them  again. 

I  must  sink  to  the  shadowy  vale — 

'Tis  dreary  alone  to  go, 
O  temper,  sweet  Pity,  my  tale, 

His  hair  is  as  white  as  the  snow. 
298 


TIMES. 

Times  are  there  when  I  long  to  know 
The  mystery  beyond  life's  wave, 

Even  at  the  awful  price,  to  go 
Unmated  through  the  grave. 

Times,  when  our  loves  and  hatreds,  all 
Of  level  vast,  or  skyey  steep, 

Seem  only  like  the  meadow  wall 
A  very  lamb  might  leap. 

Times,  when  within  my  heart  the  grain 
Of  faith  into  a  mountain  grows, 

As  suddenly  as  in  the  rain 
The  bud  becomes  a  rose. 

Times,  when  in  fancy's  shining  fold 
Joys  out  of  heaven  are  drawn  to  me, 

As  stars  in  twilight's  net  of  gold 
Out  of  the  bu 

Times,  when  rebellion  so  abounds 
Within  me,  I.  though  Satan's  mark 

Would  twist  his  fiery  wings  to  crowns, 
And  glorify  the  dark. 


300  THE     PROPHECY. 

Times,  when  I  feel  myself  a  wreck 
And  hear  a  voice  say  in  my  heart, 

"  Better  a  mill-stone  round  thy  neck, 
Than  being  what  thou  art." 

So  am  I  driven  upon  life's  stream, 
By  every  wave,  by  every  breeze, 

From  good  to  ill — my  life  a  gleam 
Between  the  darknesses. 


THE  PROPHECY. 

We  two  were  playmates, — Rosalie 
Had  lived  full  three  years  more  than  I. 

One  wild  March  day  she  said  to  me, 

"Sweet,  would  you  grieve  if  I  should  die?" 

The  black  cock  clapped  his  wings  and  crew 
Loud,  from  the  willow  overhead : 

I  laughed  for  the  good  sign — she  drew 
Her  gold  hair  through  her  hands  and  said, 

The  while  the  tears  came,  "  We  shall  play 
Under  these  boughs  no  more  !"     Alas  ! 

I  know  now  that  she  saw  that  clay 
The  daises  in  the  churchyard  grass. 


THE     PROPHECY. 

I  tried  to  see  the  squirrel  climb 
The  silver  beech-bole, — tried  to  see 

The  bees,  thick-flying, — all  the  time 
My  eyes  were  fixed  on  Rosalie. 

A  week  or  more  the  March  had  worn 
Upon  the  April's  flowery  way. — 

And  pale,  and  all  her  long  locks  shorn, 
On  our  low  bed  sweet  Rosy  lay. 

Across  her  pillow  in  bright  strands 
I  saw  them  fall  (and  wept  to  see), 

The  self-same  way  her  little  hands 

Had  twined  them  'neath  the  willow  tree. 

I  had  been  with  her  all  the  night ; 

Softly  she  slept  the  time  away. 
In  the  wet  woods  before  the  light 

The  little  brown  birds  sang  for  day. 

Over  the  locks  that  lay  across 

The  pillow  where  so  well  she  slept, 

Long  years  has  grown  the  churchyard  moss, — 
One  golden  tangle  only,  kept. 


WORSHIP. 

I  have  no  seasons  and  no  times 

To  think  of  heaven  ;  sometimes  at  night 
I  go  up  on  a  stair  of  rhymes, 

And  find  the  journey  very  bright : 
And  for  some  accidental  good, 
Wrought  by  me,  saints  have  near  me  stood. 

I  do  not  think  my  heart  is  hard 
Beyond  the  common  heart  of  men, 

And  yet  sometimes  the  best  award 
Smites  on  it  like  a  stone  ;  and  then 

A  sunbeam,  that  may  brightly  stray 

In  at  my  window,  makes  me  pray. 

The  flower  I  "ve  chanced  on,  in  some  nook 
Giving  its  wild  heart  to  the  bee, 

Has  taught  me  meekness,  like  a  book 
Of  written  preaching  ;  and  to  see 

A  corn  field  ripe,  an  orchard  red, 

Has  made  me  bow  with  shame  my  head. 

Of  stated  rite  and  formula, 

A  formal  use  the  meaning  wears  ; 

When  mostly  in  God's  works  I  see 
And  feel  his  love,  I  make  my  prayers, 

And  by  the  peace  that  comes,  I  know 

My  worship  is  accepted  so. 

302 


ONLY   TWO. 

When  the  wind  shall  come  again, 
The  last  leaflet  will  be  cleft 

From  the  bough  that  chafes  the  pane- 
Only  two  of  us  are  left. 

Two  of  us  to  smile  or  weep : 

All  the  others  are  asleep. 

Ah.  the  winds  more  softly  blow, 
But  the  wild  rain  falls  instead ; 

And  the  last  sad  leaf  must  go : 
All  its  pretty  mates  are  dead. 

So  I  sit  in  musing  sad. 

Of  the  mates  that  I  have  had. 

I  the  while  I  make  my  rhymes, 
Harking  to  the  dim  rain  fall, 
In  between  my  dreams,  sometimes, 
They  come  smiling,  one  and  all — 
They  of  whom  we  are  bereft : 
Only  two  of  08  are  Left. 

303 


304  THE     ORPHAN     GIRL. 

Many  a  time  we  lay  across 
Beds  of  softest,  whitest  down, 

As  it  made  the  low  roof  moss 
Green  upon  a  ground  of  brown, 

They  who  close  beside  me  lay 

Do  not  hear  the  rain  to-day. 


THE  ORPHAN  GIRL. 

My  heart  shall  rest  where  greenly  flow 

The  willows  o'er  the  meadow — 
The  fever  of  this  burning  brow, 

Be  cooled  beneath  their  shadow. 
When  summer  birds  go  singing  by, 

And  sweet  rain  wakes  the  blossom, 
My  weary  hands  shall  folded  lie 

Upon  a  peaceful  bosom. 

When,  Nature,  shall  the  night  begin 

That  morning  ne'er  displaces, 
And  I  be  calmly  folded  in 

Thy  long  and  still  embraces  1 
Dearer  than  to  the  Arab  maid, 

When  sands  are  hotly  glowing, 
The  deep  well  and  the  tented  shade, 

Were  peace  of  thy  bestowing. 


A  NORLAND  BALLAD. 

The  train  of  the  Norse  king 

Still  winds  the  descents, 
Leading  down  where  the  waste  ridge 

Is  white  with  his  tents ; 
The  eve  star  is  climbing 

Above  where  they  lie, 
Like  hills  at  the  harvest-time, 

"White  with  the  rye. 

Who  comes  through  the  red  light 

Of  bivouac  and  torch, 
With  footsteps  unslackened 

By  fasting  or  march  ? — 
Majestic  in  sorrow, 

No  white  hand,  I  trow, 
Can  take  from  that  forehead 

Its  pale  seal  of  woe : 

Past  grooms  that  are  merrily 

Combing  the  steed-. 
To  the  tent  of  the  Norse  king 

II"  hurriedly  spe 


306  A     NORLAND     BALLAD. 

A  right  noble  chieftain, — 
That  gloved  hand  I  know, 

Has  swooped  the  ger-falcon 
And  bended  the  bow. 

Outspeaks  he  the  counsel 

He  comes  to  afford  : 
"  As  loves  this  engloved  hand 

The  hilt  of  my  sword — 
As  loves  the  pale  martyr 

The  sacrament  seal — 
My  heart  loves  my  liege  lord 

And  prays  for  his  weal. 

"  I  once  wooed  a  maiden, 

As  fair  to  my  sight 
As  the  bride  of  the  Norse  king 

I  plead  for  to-night ; 
As  thou  dost,  I  tarried. 

Her  fond  faith  to  prove, 
And  the  wall  of  the  convent 

Grew  up  'twixt  our  love. 

"  Hold  we  to  our  marching 

Three  leagues  from  this  ridge, 
And  we  compass  our  rear-guard 

With  moat  and  with  bridge  : 
Give  one  heart  such  shriving 

As  priest  can  afford, 
And  a  sweet  loving  lady 

The  arms  of  her  lord  ! 


A     R  0  BLAND     BALLAD.  3^7 

"  Oh  felt  you  sweet  pity 

Por  half  I  have  borne, 
The  seourgings,  the  fastings, 

The  lip  never  shorn  ; 
You  fain  would  not  linger 

For  wassail's  wild  sway, 
But  leaping  to  saddle, 

Would  hold  on  the  way." 

Outspoke  then,  the  Norse  king, 

Half  pity,  half  scorn, 
"  Go  hack  to  thy  fasting 

And  keep  thee  unshorn ; 
Xo  tale  of  a  woman 

Pause  I  to  divine  ;" 
And  from  the  full  goblet 

He  quaffed  the  red  wine. 

Then  fell  sire  and  liegeman 

To  feasting  and  song ; 
I  ween  to  such  masquers 

The  night  was  not  long: 
And  but  one  little  trembler 

Stood  pale  in  the  arch, 
When  gave  the  king  signal 

To  take  up  the  march. 

If  danger  forewarn  him, 

The  omen  he  hides, 
And  mounting  right  gaily, 

He  sings  as  he  rides: 


308  A     NORLAND     BALLAD. 

"  Now,  bird  of  the  border, 
Look  forth  for  thy  chief; 
By  the  bones  of  St.  Peter, 
Thy  watch  shall  be  brief !" 

"  Stand  forth,  wretched  prophet," 

He  cries  in  his  wrath, 
As  his  foam-covered  charger 

Has  struck  on  the  path 
Leading  down  to  his  castle : 

"  Stand  forth  !  here  is  moat, 
Here  is  drawbridge — we  charge 

Back  the  lie  in  thy  throat !" 

"  Pause,  son  of  the  mighty, 

My  bode  is  not  lost 
Till  the  step  of  the  master 

The  lintel  has  crossed  ; 
And  then  if  my  counsel 

Prove  ghostly  or  vain" — 
The  king  smiled  in  triumph 

And  flung  down  the  rein. 

Lo  !  passed  is  the  threshold, 

None  answer  his  call ; 
Why  starts  he  and  trembles  1 

There  's  blood  in  the  hall ! 
His  step  through  the  corridor 

Hurriedly  dies, 
'T  is  only  an  echo 

That  answers  his  cries. 


THE     MILL- MAID.  309 

One  soft  golden  ringlet 

That  kissed  the  white  cheek 
Of  the  beautiful  lady 

They  find  as  they  seek : 
There  was  mounting  of  heralds 

In  hot  haste,  I  ween, 
But  the  bride  of  the  Norse  kino- 

Was  never  more  seen. 


THE  MILL-MAID. 

Now  comb  her  golden  hair  away : 

Meekly  and  sorrow-laden 
She  waited  for  the  closing  day — 

Poor  broken-hearted  maiden ! 
The  ring  from  off  her  finger  slip, 

And  fold  her  hands  together ; 
No  more  love's  music  on  her  lip 

Will  tremble  like  a  feather. 

Each  Sabbath-time  along  the  aisle 

Her  step  more  faintly  sounded, 
The  light  grew  paler  in  her  smile 

Her  cheek  less  softly  rounded; 
But  never  sank  we  in  despair 

Till  with  that  fearful  crying, 
"  The  mill-maid  of  the  golden  hair 

And  lily  hand  is  dying!" 


310  THE     MILL-MAID. 

When  the  dim  shadows  of  the  birch 

Above  her  rest  are  swaying, 
The  pastor  of  the  village  church 

Shall  bless  the  place  with  praying 
Deeming  the  voiceless  sacrifice 

A  loved  and  lovely  blossom, 
Blown  by  the  winds  of  Paradise 

To  Jesu's  folding  bosom. 

The  mill-wheel  for  a  day  is  still. 

The  shuttle  silent  lying, 
The  little  homestead  on  the  hill 

Looks  sadder  for  her  dying ; 
But  ere  the  third  time  in  the  spire 

The  Sabbath  bell  is  ringing, 
Not  one  of  all  the  village  choir 

Will  miss  the  mill-maid's  singing. 


THE  LOVER'S  VISION. 

The  mist  o'er  the  dark  woods 

Hangs  whiter  than  snow, 
And  the  dead  leaves  keep  surging 

And  moaning  below ! 
What  treads  through  their  dim  aisles  1 

Now  answer  me  fair — 
'T  is  not  the  bat's  flabby  wing 

Beating  the  air ! 

A  sweet  vision  rises, 

Though  dimly  defined, 
And  a  hand  on  my  forehead 

Lies  cold  as  the  wind  ! 
I  clasp  the  white  bosom, 

No  heart  beats  beneath ; 
From  the  lips,  once  so  lovely, 

Forth  issues  no  breath. 

The  red  moon  was  climbing 

The  rough  rocks  behind, 
And  the  dead  Laves  kept  moaning, 

As  now,  in  the  wind ; 

311 


312  THE 


The  white  stars  were  shining 
Through  cloud-rifts  above, 

When  first  in  these  dim  woods 
I  told  her  my  love. 

Half  fond,  half  reproachful, 

She  gazed  in  my  face, 
And,  shrinking,  she  suffered 

My  fervid  embrace : 
And  speaking  not,  lingered 

With  love's  bashful  art, 
Till  the  light  of  her  dark  eyes 

Burned  down  to  my  heart ! 

Like  the  leaf  of  the  lily 

When  Autumn  is  chill, 
The  little  hand  trembled 

That  now  is  so  still ; 
And  I  knew  the  sweet  passion, 

Her  lips  only  sighed 
In  the  hush  of  her  chamber — 

The  night  that  she  died  ! 

O'er  the  shroud  of  the  pale  one 

I  made  then  a  vow 
To  kiss  back  the  crimson 

Of  life  to  her  brow, 
If  she  from  the  still  grave 

Would  come,  as  she  hath, 
Aud  walk  at  the  midnight 

This  lone  forest  path. 


NOBILITY. 

The  cloud-rifts  are  closing, 

The  white  stars  are  gone, 
But  the  hushed  step  of  Darkness 

Moves  solemnly  on. 
I  call  the  dead  maiden, 

But  win  no  reply — 
She  has  gone,  and  for  ever, — 

Would  I  too  could  die. 


NOBILITY. 

Hilda  is  a  lofty  lady. 

Very  proud  is  she — 
I  am  but  a  simple  herdsmaD 

Dwelling  by  the  sea. 
Hilda  hath  a  spacious  palace, 

Broad,  and  white  and  high  ; 
Twenty  good  dogs  guard  the  portal — 

Never  house  had  I. 

Hilda  hath  a  thousand  meadows- 
Boundless  forest  lands ; 

She  hath  men  and  maids  for  service — 
I  have  but  my  hands. 

The  sweet  summer's  ripest  roses, 
Hilda's  cheeks  outvie — 

Queens  have  paled  to  see  her  beauty — 
But  my  beard  have  I. 
14 


L3 


;14  NOBILITY. 

Hilda  from  her  palace  windows 

Looketh  down  on  me, 
Keeping  with  my  dove-brown  oxen 

By  the  silver  sea. 
When  her  dulcet  harp  she  playeth, 

Wild  birds,  singing  nigh, 
Cluster  listening  by  her  white  hands — 

But  my  reed  have  I. 

I  am  but  a  simple  herdsman, 

With  nor  house  nor  lands ; 
She  hath  men  and  maids  for  service — 

I  have  but  my  hands. 
And  yet  what  are  all  her  crimsons 

To  my  sunset  sky — 
With  my  free  hands  and  my  manhocd 

Hilda's  peer  am  I. 


DOOMED. 

Oh  demon  waiting  o'er  the  grave, 

To  plead  against  thy  power  were  vain  ; 
Turning  from  heaven,  I  blindly  gave 

My  soul  to  everlasting  pain. 
Take  me  and  torture  me  at  will — 

My  hands  I  will  not  lift  for  aye, 
The  flames  that  die  not,  nor  can  kill, 

To  wind  from  my  poor  heart  away  ; 
For  I  have  borne  and  still  can  bear 

The  pain  of  sorrow's  wretched  storms, 
But.  love,  how  shall  1  hush  the  prayer 

For  the  sweet  shelter  of  thy  arms  ? 

Oh  home !  no  more  your  dimpling  rills 

Would  cool  this  forehead  from  its  pain 
Flowers.  l»]<»wiiLr  down  the  western  hills, 

Ye  may  not  fill  my  lap  again  ; 
Time,  speed  with  wilder,  stormier  wings, 

The  smile  that  lights  my  lip  to-day, 
A<  like  the  angenial  fire  that  springs 

Fr<-m  the  pale  ashes  of  decay. 
O  !  I  some  fair  planet-beam, 

In  clouds  that  tempests  over-brim, 
II-.w  could  tl.  r  of  a  dream 

Make  all  the  future  life  so  dim  ! 

315 


THE  WAY. 

I  cannot  plainly  see  the  way, 
So  dark  the  grave  is ;  but  I  know 

If  I  do  truly  work  and  pray, 

Some  good  will  brighten  out  of  woe. 

For  the  same  hand  that  doth  unbind 

The  winter  winds,  sends  sweetest  showers, 

And  the  poor  rustic  laughs  to  find 
His  April  meadows  full  of  flowers. 

I  said  I  could  not  see  the  way, 

And  yet  what  need  is  there  to  see, 

More  than  to  do  what  good  I  may, 
And  trust  the  great  strength  over  me  ? 

Why  should  my  spirit  pine,  and  lean 
From  its  clay  house  ;  or  restless,  bow, 

Asking  the  shadows,  if  they  mean 
To  darken  always,  dim  as  now  ? 

Why  should  I  vainly  seek  to  solve 

Free  will,  necessity,  the  pall  ? 
I  feel — I  know — that  God  is  love, 

And  knowing  this,  I  know  it  all. 
316 


THISBE. 

Sunset's  pale  arrows  shivering  near  and  far  ! — 
A  little  gray  bird  on  an  oaken  tree, 

Pouring  its  tender  plaint,  and  eve's  lone  star 
Resting  its  silver  rim  upon  the  sea  ! 

In  d ism  all  est  abandonment  she  lies — 
The  undone  Thisbe,  witless  of  the  night. 

Locking  the  sweet  time  from  her  mournful  eyes, 
With  her  thin  fingers,  a  most  piteous  sight. 

O'er  her  soft  cheek  the  sprouting  grasses  lean. 

And  the  round  moon's  gray,  melancholy  light 
Creeps  through  the  darkness,  all  unfelt,  unseen. 

And  folds  her  tender  limbs  from  the  chill  night. 

Pressing  your  cold  hands  over  rushy  springs, 
And  making  your  chaste  beds  in  beaded  dew, 

About  her,  Nereides,  draw  your  magic  rin 
And  wreath  her  golden-budded  hopes  anew. 

For  by  the  tumult  of  thick-coming  sighs, 
The  aspect  wan  that  hath  no  mortal  name. 

I  know  the  wilful  god  of  the  blind  eyes 

Hath  sped  a  love-shaft  with  too  true  an  aim. 

317 


SAFE. 

Oh,  stormy  wind  of  winter-time, 

Moan  wildly  as  you  will ; 
His  rest  you  cannot  trouble  now, 

His  heart  you  cannot  chill. 

Lean  to  the  earth,  oh,  summer  corn, 

Before  the  dim  wet  blast ; 
His  eyes  have  seen  the  golden  calm 

Of  harvests  never  past. 

Deep  in  your  bosom  fold,  oh  earth, 
Your  shining  flowers  away  ; 

His  steps  are  in  the  lily  fields 
Of  never  ending  May. 

Draw  your  red  shadows  from  the  wall, 
Oh  beauteous  ember-glow ; 

Drift  cold  about  his  silent  house, 
Oh  white  December  snow ; 

Across  the  sparkle  of  the  dew 
Dry  dust  in  whirlwinds  pour  ; 

Hide,  new  moon,  in  the  cloudy  skies — 
He  needs  your  light  no  more  ! 

318 


ADELIED. 

Unpraised  but  of  my  simple  rhymes 
She  pined  from  life,  and  died, 

The  softest  of  all  April  times 
That  storm  and  shine  divide. 

The  swallow  twittered  within  reach 

Impatient  of  the  rain, 
And  the  red  blossoms  of  the  peach 

Blew  down  against  the  pane. 

When,  feeling  that  life's  wasting  sands 

Were  wearing  into  hours, 
She  took  her  long  locks  in  her  hands 

And  gathered  out  the  flowers. 

The  day  was  nearly  at  the  close, 

And  on  the  eave  in  sight, 
The  doves  were  gathered  in  white  rows 

With  bosoms  to  the  light; 

"\\  hen  first  my  sorrow  flowed  to  rhymes 

For  gentle  Adelied — 
The  light  of  thrice  five  April-times 

Had  kissed  her  when  she  died. 

31U 


WHAT  AN  ANGEL  SAID. 

I  dreamed  of  love  ;  I  thought  the  air 
Was  glowing  with  the  smile  of  God — 
An  angel  told  me  all  the  sod 
Was  beauteous  with  answered  prayer — 
1  looked,  and  lo  !  the  flowers  were  there. 

I  could  not  tell  what  place  to  tread, 
So  thick  the  yellow  violets  run  ; 
Along  the  brooks,  and  next  the  sun 

The  woods  were  like  a  garden  bed ; 

And  whispering  soft,  the  angel  said, 

(While  in  his  own  he  took  my  hand,) 
"  Dear  soul,  thou  art  not  in  a  dream, 
All  things  are  truly  what  they  seem — 
Thou  art  but  newly  come  to  land, 
Through  shallows  and  across  the  sand." 

I  felt  the  light  wings  cross  my  face, 
My  heavy  eyes  I  felt  unclose, 
And  from  my  dreaming  I  arose, 

If  I  had  dreamed,  and  by  God's  grace, 

Saw  glory  in  the  angel's  place. 
320 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

I  little  care  to  write  her  praise, 

In  truth,  I  little  care  that  she 
Should  seem  as  pure  in  all  her  ways, 

To  others,  as  she  seems  to  me. 

At  morn  a  sparrow's  note  we  heard, 

His  shadow  fell  across  her  bed, 
She  smiled  and  listened  to  the  bird ; 

And  when  the  evening  twilight  red, 

Fell  with  the  dew,  he  came  again, 
And  perching  on  the  nearest  bough, 

Higher  and  wilder  sang  the  strain  — 
She  did  not  smile  to  hear  him  now. 

Many  and  many  years,  the  light, 

Thin  moonbeams,  sheets  for  her  have  spread 
And  scented  clovers,  red  and  white, 

Have  made  the  fringes  of  her  bed. 

Small  care  for  sitting  in  the  sun 

Have  I— small  can,-  to  war  with  fate: 

The  wine  and  wormwood  are  as  one, 
Since  thou  art  dead,  my  pretty  mate. 
14*  321 


THE    WORKERS. 

Who  are  seers  and  who  are  sages  1 
They  who  know  and  understand  — 

Not  the  sphinxes  of  old  ages, 

With  their  dead  eves  in  the  sand. 

Every  worm  beside  you  creeping, 

Every  insect  flying  well, 
Every  pebble  in  earth's  keeping, 

Has  a  history  to  tell. 

The  small,  homely  flower  that 's  lying 
In  your  pathway,  may  contain 

Some  elixir,  which  the  dying 
Generations  sought  in  vain. 

In  the  stone  that  waits  the  turning 
Of  some  curious  hand,  from  sight 

Eiery  atoms  may  be  burning, 

That  would  fill  the  world  with  light. 

Let  us  then,  in  reverence  bowing, 

Honor  most  of  all  mankind, 
Such  as  keep  their  great  thoughts  plowing 

Deepest  in  the  field  of  mind. 
322 


LOOKING   BACK. 

I  have  been  looking  back  to-day 
Upon  life's  April  promise  hours, 

Its  June  is  with  me  now,  but  May 
Left  all  her  blushes  in  the  flowers. 

A  still  and  sober  gladness  reigns 

Where  there  was  hopeful  mirth,  erewhile- 
Hardly  the  soul  its  wisdom  gains — 

Through  suffering  we  learn  to  smile. 

DO 

The  heart  that  went  out  beating  wild 
With  visions  of  the  bliss  to  be, 

Has  come  back  weary,  like  a  child 
That  sits  beside  the  mother's  knee. 

The  vision  of  a  coming  bliss — 

A  bliss  from  earth  that  never  springs, — 
In  youth  was  but  the  chrysalis 

That  time  has  glorified  with  wings. 

And  if  I  see  no  longer  here 

The  splendor  of  a  transient  good, 
A  cloud  has  left  my  atmosphere, 

And  heaven  is  shining  where  it  stood. 

323 


HYMN. 

Bow,  angels,  from  your  glorious  state 

If  e'er  on  earth  you  trod, 
And  lead  me  through  the  golden  gate 

Of  prayer,  unto  my  God. 

I  long  to  gather  from  the  Word 
The  meaning,  full  and  clear, 

To  build  unto  my  gracious  Lord 
A  tabernacle  here. 

Against  my  face  the  tempests  beat, 
The  snows  are  falling  chill, 

When  shall  I  hear  the  voice  so  sweet, 
Commanding,  Peace,  be  still ! 

The  angels  said,  God  giveth  you 
His  love — what  more  is  ours  1 

Even  as  the  cisterns  of  the  dew 
O'erflow  upon  the  flowers, 

His  grace  decends ;  and,  as  of  old, 
He  walks  with  men  apart, 

Keeping  the  promise,  as  foretold, 
With  all  the  pure  in  heart. 
324 


LEILIA. 

Gone  from  us  hast  thou,  in  thy  girlish  hours, 

What  time  the  tenderest  blooms  of  summer  cease ; 

In  thy  young  bosom  bearing  life's  sweet  fiWers 
To  the  good  city  of  eternal  peace. 

In  the  soft  stops  of  silver  singing  rain, 
Faint  be  the  falling  of  the  pale  red  light 

O'er  thy  meek  slumber,  wrapt  away  from  pain 
In  the  fair  robes  of  dainty  bridal  white. 

Seven  nights  the  stars  have  wandered  through  the  blue, 
Since  thou  to  larger,  holier  life  wert  born ; 

And  day  as  often,  sandaled  with  gray  dew, 
Has  trodden  out  the  golden  fires  of  morn. 

The  wearying  tumult  of  unending  strife, 

The  jars  that  through  the  heart  discordant  ring, 

Drive  the  dim  current  of  our  mortal  life 

Against  the  shore  where  reigns  unending  spring. 

And  though  I  mourn  for  Leilia,  she  who  dJ 
When  all  the  tenderest  blossoms  i  be, 

Her  being's  broken  wave  has  multiplied 
The  stars  that  shine  across  eternity. 

325 


LIGHTS  OF  GEJNTIUS. 

These  are  the  pillars,  on  whose  tops 

The  white  stars  rest  like  capitals, 
Whence  every  living  spark  that  drops 

Kindles  and  blazes  as  it  falls ; 
And  if  the  arch-fiend  rise  to  pluck, 

Or  stoop  to  crush  their  beauty  down, 
A  thousand  other  sparks  are  struck, 

That  Glory  settles  in  her  crown. 
The  huge  ship,  with  its  brassy  share, 

Ploughs  on  to  lead  their  light  its  course, 
And  veins  of  iron  cleave  the  air 

To  waft  it  from  its  burning  source ; 
All,  from  the  insect's  tiny  wings, 

And  the  small  drop  of  morning  dew, 
To  the  wide  universe  of  things, 

The  light  is  shining,  burning  through. 
The  light  that  makes  the  poet's  page 

Of  stories  beautiful  as  truth, 
And  pours  upon  the  locks  of  age 

The  glory  of  eternal  growth. 


326 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

A     ROMANCE     OF    THE     GOLDEN     AGE    OF    TEZCUCO. 

White-limbed  and  quiet,  by  her  nightly  tomb 
Sat  the  young  Day.  new-risen  ;  at  her  feet, 
Wrapt  loose  together,  lay  the  burial  clouds; 
And  on  her  forehead,  like  the  unsteady  crown 
Of  a  late  winged  immortal,  flamed  the  sun. 
All  seasons  have  their  beauty  :  drowsy  Noon, 
Winking  along  the  hilltops  lazily  ; 
And  fiery  sandaled  Eve,  that  bards  of  eld, 
Writing  their  sweet  rhymes  on  the  aloe  leaves,1 
Paused  reverently  to  worship,  as  she  went, 
Like  a  worn  gleaner,  with  a  sheaf  of  corn 
Pressed  to  her  bosom,  lessening,  down  the  wi 
And  thou,  dusk  huntress!  through  whose  heavy  Locks 
Shimmer  the  icy  arrows  of  the  stars — 
About  whose  solemn  brow  once  blinded  Faith 
Wound  the  red  shadows  of  the  carnival, 
Till  o'er  its  flower-crowned  holocaust  waxed  pale 

*  The  ancient  MSS.  of  the  Mexicans  were  for  the  most  part  on  a  fine  fabric 
made  of  leave-  of  the  al^e      It  resembled  the  Egyptian  papyrus,  and  wai 
*oft  and  beautiful  than  parchment.     The  written  leaves  were  commonly  done 
Qp  in  volumes.— Frdscolt. 

321 


328  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

The  constellation  of  the  Pleiades — ] 

Fair  art  thou  :  but  more  fair  the  rising  day  ! 

And  day  was  fully  up:  Along  the  hills, 
Black  with  a  wilderness  of  ebony, 
Walked  the  wild  heron  ;  and  in  Chalco's  wave 
Waded  the  scarlet  egret,  while  the  Light, 
Flitting  along  the  cloisters  of  the  wood, 
Softly  took  up  the  rosaries  of  dew ; 
From  stealthy  trailing  on  the  hunter's  path 
The  ocelot  drew  back,  and  in  her  lair 
Growled  hungry,  lapping  with  hot  tongue  her  cubs ; 
While  the  iguana,  gray  and  rough  with  warts, 
Checkt  round  with  streaky  gold,  and  cloven  tongued, 

1  On  the  termination  of  the  great  cycle  of  fifty  years,  says  Prcscott,  there 
was  celebrated  a  remarkable  festival.  The  cycle  would  end  in  the  latter  part 
of  December,  and  as  the  dreary  season  of  the  winter  solstice  approached,  and 
the  diminished  light  of  day  gave  melancholy  presage  of  its  quick  extinction, 
their  apprehensions  increased  ;  and  as  the  last  days  arrived,  they  abandoned 
themselves  to  despair.  The  holy  fires  were  suffered  to  go  out  in  their  temples, 
and  none  were  lighted  in  their  dwellings.  Everything  was  ihrown  into  dis- 
order, for  the  coming  of  the  evil  genii,  who  were  to  descend  on,  and  desolate 
the  earth.  On  the  evening  of  the  last  day  a  procession  of  priests  moved 
toward  a  lofty  mountain,  two  leagues  from  the  city.  On  reaching  its  summit, 
the  procession  paused  till  midnight,  when,  as  the  constellation  of  the  Pleiades 
approached  the  zenith,  the  new  fire  wa-  kindled  on  the  wounded  breast  of  the 
victim.     Southey  describes  the  scene,  in  Madoc  : 

"On  his  bare  breast  the  cedar  boughs  are  laid  ; 
On  his  bare  breast  dry  sedge  and  odorous  gums 
Laid  ready  to  receive  the  sacred  spark, 
And  herald  the  ascending  Sun, 
Upon  his  living  altar." 

The  flame  was  soon  communicated  to  a  funeral  pile,  on  which  the  body  of 
the  slaughtered  captive  was  thrown  ;  and  as  the  light  streamed  toward  heaven, 
shouts  of  joy  and  triumph  burst  from  the  countless  multitudes.  Thirteen 
aays  were  given  up  to  festivity.  It  was  the  national  jubilee  of  the  Aztecs,  like 
(hat  of  the  Romans  or  Etruscans,  which  few  alive  had  seen  before,  or  could 
expect  to  see  again. 


THE     MAIDEN      OF     TLASOala.  329 

Crept  sluggish  up  the  rocks— a  poison  beast ; 
And  the  slim  blue-necked  snake  of  Xalapa 
Lifted  its  limber  folds  into  the  light. 
From  his  black  cirque  of  rocks,  stood  up  alone 
The  monarch  of  the  mountains  ;*on  his  breast. 
The  fiery  foldings  of  his  garment,  bracked 
And  seamed  with  ashes,  and  his  gray  head  bare, 
The  while,  with  crystals  rough,  Chinantla's  pride,1 
Sat,  chiefest  of  a  shining  brotherhood, 
His  turquoise  eyes  fast  shut  'neath  mossy  lids, 
Regardless  of  the  clamorous  sea  that  lav- 
Twining  her  wild  green  hair  about  his  feet. 
Betwixt  her  heavy  sobs,  for  love  of  him— 
Flat  all  her  monstrous  length  along  the  sands. 
Joyous,  the  ranks  of- cedars  and  of  pines 
Shook  their  thick  limbs  together,  as  the  winds 
Toiled  past  them  toward  the  red  gaps  of  the  hills 
Through  which  the  Morning  came,  and,  where,  for  hours 
Tanning  her  cheeks  with  kisses,  they  would  stay. 
But  to  the  hopeless  heaven  itself  were  sad  : 
The  darkened  senses  fail  to  apprehend 
The  elements  of  beauty  ;  the  dull  gaze 
Is  introverted  to  the  world  within, 
>\  hose  all  is  ruins — seeing  never  more 
The  all-serene  and  blessed  harmony 
That  lives  and  breathes  through  Nature  :  to  the  air 
Giving  its  motion  and  its  melody, 
The  trees  their  separate  colors,  the  wild  brooks 
Their  silver  syllables,  'gainst  fruitless  stones 

1  Pojahtecate. 


330       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Joining  bright  grasses,  knitting  golden! y 
The  clear  white  of  the  day's  departing  train 
Into  the  blank,  black  border  of  the  night, 
Dew  raining  on  the  dust,  and  on  the  heart 
The  comfortable  influences  of  love. 
So,  things  which  if  left  single,  had  been  bad, 
Grow  in  affiliation,  excellent. 

Mindless  of  all  the  beauty  of  the  time, 
Prone  on  the  wasting  ruins  of  a  shrine 
Eeared  by  the  priests  of  Hometeuli,1  long 
Gone  down  in  still  processions  to  the  dark, 
Lay  fallen  Hualco — his  unmailed  arms 
Prostrate  along  the  dust,  while,  like  live  coals, 
His  eyes,  no  longer  shadowed  by  a  crown, 
Deep  in  their  blue  and  famine-sunken  rings 
Burned  hungry  for  the  life  of  Maxtala,2 — 
In  wrappings  of  the  sunrise  purples,  grand, 
In  awful  desolation,  glorious. 
Is  not  the  eagle  hovering  toward  the  sun 
In  broken  flutterings  to  keep  its  hold 
Up  level  with  the  mountains,  more  sublime 
Than  in  the  steady  flight  of  stronger  wings  % 
Thus  in  his  exile,  thus  in  solitude, 
His  manly  port  was  nobler  than  a  king's. 
Not  his  the  vain  and  groveling  lust  of  power 
That  rounds  the  ambitious  aims  of  selfishness : 

'The  general  name  by  which,  according  to  Lord  Kingsborough,  tht  deity 
was  known  to  the  Mexicans. 

2  Maxtala,  Maxtlaton,  or  Maxtla,  was  successor  of  the  Tepanec  conqueror, 
and  his  tyranny  was  evinced  first  against  the  son  of  the  defeated  and  slain 
sovereign,  whom  he  made  an  exile  and  a  fugitive. 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  331 

His  broken  people  he  would  fain  have  built 

Into  a  mighty  column,  that  should  stand, 

The  beacon  of  the  unborn  centuries ; 

From  the  blind  statues  where  Idolatry 

Sunk  deep  her  bleeding  forehead  in  the  dust, 

He  would  have  stript  the  wreaths  voluminous, 

And  on  the  altar  of  the  living  God, 

Laid  them,  a  broidery  for  the  robe  of  faith. 

As  Thought  went  searching  through  his  soul,  his  face 

Now  with  the  piteous  pallor  of  despair 

Was  overspread,  and  now  was  all  transformed 

Into  the  stormy  beauty  of  roused  hate. 

Such  change  is  seen  when  o'er  some  buried  fire 

The  gust  shoves  heavy,  and  the  quickened  sparks 

Burn  red  together  in  the  ashen  ground. 

Fragments  of  temples,  sacred  to  the  rites 

Of  the  departed  Aztecs,  round  him  lay, 

Lapsing  to  common  dust ;  and,  great  and  still, 

With  snowy  mantle  blown  along  the  clouds, 

Iztacihuatia1  listened  to  the  stars, 

And  cast  the  terrible  horoscope  of  storms. 

From  its  rough  rim  of  rocks  stretching  away, 

Dark,  to  the  unknown  distance,  lay  the  sea, 

Where  that  lost  god2  took  refuge,  whose  black  beard 

1  Called  afterwards  by  the  Spaniards,  Sierra  Neveda. 

*tzalcoatl.  pod  of  the  air,  who  visited  the  earth  to  instruct  the  people 
in  the  arts  of  civilization.  Incurring  the  wrath  of  one  of  the  princ  pal  gods, 
he  was  compelled  to  abandon  the  country,  and  as  he  went  toward  the  sea,  he 
stopped  at  Cholula.  where  a  temple  was  dedicated  to  his  worship,  of  which 
there  are   still  gigantic  r  as  among  the  most  interesting 

of  Mexican  antiquity.     On  the  shores  of  the  gulf  he  took  leave  of  his  follow- 
ers, entertd  his  wizzard  skiff  of  serpent  skins,  and  einbarkiug  tor  Tlapala.ii, 


332  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

Heavy  with  kisses  of  the  drowning  waves, 

Back  from  his  wizzard  skiff  of  serpent  skins 

Dragged,  as  he  sailed  for  fabulous  Tlapalan. 

A  prince,  and  yet  a  dweller  in  the  woods 

So  long,  that  in  his  path  the  fiercest  wolves 

Walked  tame  as  with  their  mates,  and  o'er  his  head 

Howled  that  strange  beast1  that  to  his  fellows  cries 

Till  they  devour  the  feast  himself  tastes  not ; 

And  flying  rats  gnawed  their  repasts,  hard  by, 

From  tawny  barks  of  oily  trees,  or  made 

With  black  and  wrinkled  wings  the  sunshine  dusk  ! 

Cool  in  the  shadows  of  the  mountain  palm, 

The  white  stag  rested,  fearless  of  his  step, 

And  the  black  alco,  melancholy,  dumb, 

Fixed  his  sad  eyes  upon  him  as  he  passed, 

And,  sluggish,  wallowing  in  his  watery  trough, 

His  loose  mane  gray  with  brine,  the  amyztli,2 

Regardless  of  a  kinglier  presence,  lay. 

But  to  Hualco  it  was  all  the  same 

Whether  the  music  of  the  Awakener, 

Starting  at  twilight,  rung  along  the  woods, 

Or  whether  Silence,  fed  of  dreams  alone, 

Pressed  the  sweet  echoes  back  to  solitude  : 

Whether  the  ebony  and  cherry  trees 

Spread  over  him  their  cool  and  tent-like  shade, 

And  pillows  of  the  ceiba  down  lay  white 

was  never  heard  of  again.  He  was  large  and  fair,  with  long  black  hair  and  a 
flowing  beard.  See  Prescott,  and  all  the  Spanish  writers  who  hive  written  of 
the  Mexican  mythology. 

i  The  ocotochtli,  of  whom  this  fable  is  related  by  Hernandez. 

2  The  sea-lion. 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  333 

Upon  his  bed  of  moss,  or  whether  hot 
And  sharp  against  his  face,  its  iron  leaves 
The  inirapaiida  thrust  :  To  husk  the  sheathes 
From  the  sweet  fruitage  of  the  plant  of  light, 
Or,  starved,  to  climb  the  rugged  steeps  wherein 
The  shelves  of  unsunned  stone  were  folded  full 
Of  slimy  lodgers,  were  to  him  as  one. 

A  bright  bud,  broken  from  a  royal  tree 
And  planted  in  the  desert,  how  shall  I 
Sing  his  strange  story  fitly,  and  so  make 
A  new  moon  in  the  sky  of  poesy? 
The  bards  of  fair  Tezcuco  long  ago 
Won  from  the  mountains  where  he  hid,  forlorn, 
Treasures  of  beauty  shining  still  along 
The  dreary  ways  poetic  pilgrims  go, 
Like  fountains  roofed  with  rainbows — making  all 
His  wrongs  and  toils,  in  cloudy  exile  borne, 
The  brief  eclipse  of  the  most  glorious  day 
That  ever  shone  along  the  Aztec  hills. 

While  in  the  broidery  of  a  baby  king 
Yet  swathed,  unconscious,  all  the  lovely  maids 
From  Actolan  to  Champala  had  come, 
And  from  their  girdles  loosening  the  pearls 
And  amethysts,  had  left  them  at  his  feet, 
And,  for  his  beauty,  kissed  him  as  he  slept ; 
Praying  the  gods  to  spare  from  breaking,  long, 
The  chain  of  precious  beads  then  newly  hung 
About  the  empire's  neck.     Ill-fated  prince  ! 
When  the  glad  music  sounding  at  hia  birth 
Was  muffled  by  disaster,  love's  brief  day 


334       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

"Waned  to  untimely  twilight,  his  bare  arm 
(The  tiring  of  his  royalty  rent  off) 
Must  cleave  its  way  alone,  or  wither  so  ! 
Yet  was  he  not  ill-fated  :  when  we  see 
The  purposes  God  puts  about  our  wo, 
Behind  the  plowing  storm  run  shining  waves, 
Like  beetles  through  new  furrows  ;  the  same  hand 
That  peels  the  tough  husk  of  the  chrysalis, 
Gives  it  its  double  wings  to  fly  withal ; 
The  rain  that  makes  the  wren  sail  heavily 
Sets  on  the  millet  stocks  their  golden  tops  : 
And  earthly  immortality  is  bought 
At  the  great  price  of  earthly  happiness. 
Only  the  gods  from  the  blue  skies  come  down, 
Mad  for  the  love  of  genius — Genius,  named, 
Also,  the  Sorrowful ;  and  from  the  clouds, 
That  dim  the  lofty  heaven  of  poesy, 
Falls  out  the  sweetest  music ;  in  the  earth 
The  seed  must  be  imprisoned,  ere  to  lif 
It  quicken  and  sprout  brightly  ;  the  sharp  stroke 
Brings  from  the  flint  its  fiery  property; 
And  that  we  call  misfortune,  to  the  wise 
Is  a  good  minister,  and  knowledge  brings : 
And  knowledge  is  the  basis  whereon  power 
Builds  her  eternal  arches.     In  the  dust 
Of  baffled  purposes  springs  up  resolve, 
The  plant  which  bears  the  fruit  of  victory. 
The  old  astrologers  were  wrong :  nor  star, 
Nor  the  vexed  ghosts  that  glide  into  the  light, 
From  the  unquiet  charnels  of  the  bad, 


THE      MAIDEN      OF     T  L  A  S  C  A  L  A  .  335 

Nor  wicked  sprite  of  air.  nor  such  as  leap 

Nimbly  from  wave  to  wave'along  the  sea, 

Enchanting  with  sweet  tongues  disastrous  ships 

Till  the  rough  crews  are  half  in  love  with  death, 

Have  any  spell  of  evil  witchery 

To  keep  us  back  from  being  what  we  would, 

If  wisdom  temper  the  true  bent  of  us. 

We  drive  the  furrow,  with  the  share  of  faith, 

Through  the  waste  field  of  life,  and  our  own  hands 

Sow  thick  the  seeds  that  spring  to  weeds  or  flowers, 

And  never  strong  Necessity,  nor  Fate, 

Trammels  the  soul  that  firmly  says,  I  will  ! 

Else  are  we  playthings,  and  't  is  Satan's  mock 

To  preach  to  us  repentance  and  belief. 

Sweet  saints  I  pray  in  piteous  love  agree, 

And  from  the  ugly  bosom  of  despair 

Draw  back  the  nestling  hand — heal  the  vexed  heart 

And  steady  it— what  time  the  faltering  faith 

Keeps  its  own  council  with  determinate  Will, 

The  hardy  pioneer  of  all  success. 

"  Among  the  ruins  of  my  rightful  hopes 
Shall  I  crouch  down  and  say  I  am  content? 
It  is  not  in  my  nature.     I  would  scorn 
The  weakness  of  submission,  though  to  that 

miserable  chance  were  narrowed  up. 
Shame  to  the  wearer  of  a  beard  who  wears 
N         tr.hood  with  it ;  double  shame  to  him 
Whose  plaything  ifl  the  fillet  of  a  crown. 
Even  beasts  whose  lower  senses  are  shut  in 
From  purposes  of  reason   have  maintained 


336       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

A  lordly  disposition  ;  taming  not 

To  the  sleek  touches  of  the  keeper's  hand. 

The  uses  of  humility  are  still 

For  underlings  and  women — not  for  kings. 

And  yet  to  fate,  if  there  be  any  fate, 

Even  the  gods  must  yield  ;  they  cannot  make 

The  truth  a  lie,  nor  make  a  lie  the  truth ; 

And  if  to  them  there  be  a  limit  fixed, 

Shall  I,  with  my  weak  hands  of  dust,  essay 

To  bend  the  untempered  iron  of  destiny 

About  my  forehead?    'T  is  most  maddening, 

The  attempt  and  not  the  achievement — yet  th'  attempt 

Is  all  the  wedge  that  splits  its  knotty  way 

Betwixt  the  impossible  and  possible. 

From  the  flat  shrubless  desert  to  the  waves 

Of  willowy  rivers,  flowing  bright  and  cool, 

From  flowery  thickets,  up  into  the  clouds. 

The  bird  may  fly  in  its  own  atmosphere ; 

But  from  the  long  dead  reaches  of  blank  space 

Its  free  wings  fall  back  baffled.     So  it  is 

With  gods  and  men  :  each  have  their  atmospheres, 

Which  they  are  free  to  move  in,  and  to  which 

From  ampler  quests,  they  needs  must  flounder  down 

Sometimes,  when  goaded  to  the  utmost  verge 

Of  possible  endurance — gathering  all 

My  sorrows  to  one  purpose,  rebel  like, 

I  would  step  out  into  the  dark,  when  lo ! 

Fate  ties  my  unwilling  feet,  and  'twixt  my  eyes 

And  the  great  Infinite,  full  in  the  sun 

Makes  quiet  pictures.     But  ere  I  can  shape 


THE      MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  337 

This  chaos  of  crushed  manhood  that  I  am 

To  any  purposes,  the  faithless  light 

Breaks  up,  and  all  is  darkness  as  it  was. 

So  are  we  crippled  ever.     Even  like 

The  snake  some  burden  fastens  to  the  ground. 

Now  palpitating  into  stiff,  bright  rings, 

Now  lengthening  limberly  along  the  dust, 

But  gaining  not  a  hair's  breadth  for  its  pains, 

Is  thought :  its  lengths  now  stretched  to  overclimb 

The  steep  high  walls  about  us  ;  now,  alas  ! 

Dragging  back  heavily  into  itself. 

Like  am  I  to  a  drowning  man,  whose  hands 

Hold  idly  to  the  unsubstantial  waves; 

Or  like  some  dreamer,. on  whose  conscious  form 

A  wretched  weight  lies  heavy,  while  his  tongue 

Refuses  utterance  to  his  agony. 

1  can  not  rise  out  of  this  living  death, 

More  than  the  prematurely  buried  man, 

"Who,  waking  from  his  torpor,  feels  his  limbs 

Bound,  from  their  natural  uses,  in  the  shroud, 

And  feebly  strives  to  climb  out  of  his  grave. 

"  I-  there  no  strength,  in  sorrow  or  in  praj  er, 
To  smite  the  brazen  portals  of  the  sun, 
And  bring  some  beam  to  lead  me  into  hope  ? 
Not  90  :  the  unoriginated  Power 
Sweeps  back  the  audacious  thought  to  emptiness. 
What  are  the  sufferings  of  one  little  life. 

.  of  a  thousand  or  ten  thousand  li 
Or  what  is  all  this  large  and  curious  world, 
Ju  meditative  sighs,  its  hopes  and  loves. 
15 


OO  THE     MAIDEN      OF      TLASCALA. 

Rivers  and  mountains,  rough  and  obstinate, 

Primeval  solitudes,  and  darknesses 

Where  the  days  drop  like  plummets — what  are  ail, 

Tumbled  in  one,  and  with  a  cerement  bound, 

But  as  a  bundle  going  up  and  down, 

In  the  vast  ocean  of  eternity  ! 

High  as  the  sun  above  the  drop  of  dew 

The  gods  dwell  over  us.  and  have  they  need 

To  buy  our  favor  with  some  piteous  sign  ? 

Their  bliss  we  cannot  lessen  nor  increase; 

But  as  we  grow  up  to  the  topling  heights 

Of  our  ambitions,  more  and  more  we  catch 

Some  dim  reflection  of  their  sovereignty. 

The  path  is  narrow  that  goes,  up,  and  on, 

And  Fame  a  jealous  mistress.     They  who  reach 

To  take  her  hand  must  let  all  others  go. 

"Borders  and  plaits  of  red  and  saphirine 
Are  pretty  in  the  robe  of  royalty, 
But  to  the  drowning  man,  who  strains  against 
The  whelming  waves,  the  gaud  were  cumbersome, 
And  straightway  shredded  off,  and  wet,  wild  rocks 
Hugged  to  his  bosom  with  a  closer  clasp 
Than  the  young  mother  to  her  baby  gives. 
When  from  his  steady  footing  hungry  Death 
Goes  moaning  back,  the  time  has  come  to  pluck 
The  honorable  gear.     I  must  be  wise, 
And  clutching  at  whatever  means  I  may, 
Climb  to  the  moveless  stepping  of  my  throne. 
If  youth  were  back  again,  or  th'  last  year, 
Or  even  if  yesterday  might  break  anew, 


THE     MAIDBN     OF     TLASCALA.  ooi 

I  would  be  vigilant ;  do  thus,  or  thus. 

"  So  sit  we  idle,  till  another  day 
Dies,  and  is  wrapt  in  purple  like  the  rest.  • 

Years  run  to  waste,  and  age  comes  stealing  slow 
On  our  imperfect  plans,  till  in  our  veins 
The  life  tide,  sluggish,  like  an  earth-worm  lies. 
Where  down  yon  mountain  side  the  dragon's  blood 
Drips  till  the  rocks,  in  the  close  noontide  heat, 
Smoke  mistily,  the  miztli2  couchant  lies, 
His  muscles  quivering  with  excess  of  life ; 
But  should  he  lie  there  till  his  hungry  howls 
Crash  through  the  shaken  forest  like  a  storm, 
Would  any  beast  divide  his  prey  with  him  ! 
Or  wild  bird,  in  the  flowing  of  his  mane 
Tangling  its  bright  wings,  sing  his  pain  away  1 
Weak,  foolish  grief,  be  dwarfed  to  nothingness ! 
Henceforth  I  will  not  listen  to  your  moans. 
Did  Colhua's  princess3  buy  with  mortal  life 
The  honor  to  be  mother  of  a  god, 
And  shall  her  woman's  courage  shame  a  king's  ? 
There  is  not  air  in  all  the  blowing  north 
For  me  to  breathe,  with  Maxtala  alive  ! 
Yet  am  I  beggared,  orphaned  of  all  hope. 
Herding  with  the  eoyotli,4  while  he  reigns 
The  monarch  of  my  palace  ;  and  the  maids, 

1  '•  Dragon's  Blood"  runs  from  a  large  tree  growing  in  tha  mountains  of 
Quachinanco  and  ihose  of  the  Cubuixcas.— Clavigero. 

a  The  .Mexican  lion. 

3  Clavigero,  i.  134,  presents  the  curious  details  of  the  sacrifice  and  deification 
of  (his  pnn   • 

*  The  wolf. 


340      THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

From  Zalahua's  shade  to  Tlascala, 
Bend  for  his  gracious  favor  till  their  locks 
*Flow  in  a  bath  of  fragrance  at  his  feet. 
Pipers,  with  garlands  prankt  fantastical, 
Blow  on  their  reeds  to  please  his  idleness, 
Making  the  air  so  sweetly  musical 
That  the  hushed  birds  hang  listening  on  the  boughs. 
And,  for  his  whim,  victims  are  led  to  death, 
Till  the  red  footprints  of  his  headsmen  grim, 
In  the  hot  noon  of  summer  never  dry ; 
And  masks  unholy  cheat  the  hours,  what  time, 
Stringing  black  poppies  round  her  forehead,  Eve 
Walks  from  her  transient  palace  in  the  clouds, 
Her  dark  robe  trailing  down  its  base  of  blue; 
( )r,  when  the  morn,  her  sandals  tied  with  light, 
Along  the  fields  of  heaven  gathers  the  stars. 
Like  blossoms,  to  her  bosom.     By  the  power 
Of  all  the  gods,  his  wanton  lip  shall  drink 
The  wine  of  wormwood.     I  will  husk  full  soon 
The  splendor  from  his  ugly  body  down, 
And  whistle  him  out  to  run  before  my  hate, 
Unkingdomed  and  unfriended,  for  his  life. 
He,  too,  shall  have,  as  I  have  now,  the  winds, 
At  night,  for  chamberlains.     My  exile  proves 
The  executioner's  brief  drawing  off, 
To  strike  betwixt  the  eyes — the  sly  recoil 
Before  the  deadly  spring — this,  only  this  !" 
On  this  wise  spoke  Hualco  :  otherwhilcs, 
The  drowsy  monotone  of  murmurous  bees 
Crept  softly  under  pansied  coverlids ; 


THE     MAIDEN      OF     TLASCALA.  341 

Or  the  still  flowing  of  the  cool  west  wind. 
( >r  sunset,  haply,  or  the  unshaken  stars, 
Or  interfuse  of  fair  things  without  name — 
But  of  such  wondrous,  magical  potency, 
That  Love,  the  leash  of  chance  enchantment  slipt, 
Has  in  his  bed  of  beauty  drowsed  sometimes, 
While  Goodness,  clothed  not  of  the  beautiful, 
Pined,  dying  for  his  whisper — to  his  heart 
Gave  all  their  sweetest  comfort.     As  the  bough 
Drops  in  the  storm  its  weights  of  rainy  leaves, 
His  roused  soul  dropt  the  heaviness  away, 
And  he  went,  mated  with  most  rare  delight, 
Through  the  green  windings  of  the  wilderness. 
Nature  is  kindly  ever,  and  we  all 
Have  from  her  naked  bosom  drawn  at  times 
Drafts  sweet  as  crusted  nectar. 

Charily  ! 
She  gives  us  entertainment,  if  we  come 
With  hearts  unsanctified  and  noisy  feet, 
Into  her  tents  of  pious  solitude. 
But  when  we  go  in  worshipful,  she  spreads 
II:  altars  with  the  sacrament  of  peace, 
And  lifts  into  her  solemn  psalmody 
Our  spirits'  else  unuttered  melodies. 

I  is  not  the  outward  garniture  of  things 
That  through  the  senses  makes  creation  fair. 
But  the  out-flow  of  an  indwelling  light, 
That  gives  its  lovely  aspect  to  the  world. 
Sou,  ftimes  bis  memory  wandered  to  the  hours 


342  THE      MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

When  in  the  Mexic  capital,1  a  child, 

And  yet  an  exile,  or  in  his  own  halls, 

By  sufferance  of  the  usurper,  who  had  slain. 

(While  he,  concealed,  look'd  from  the  spreading  palm 

That  swung  its  odorous  censers  in  the  court,) 

Texcuco's  sovereign,  who  at  bay  had  held 

The  trampling  foe,  tumultuous,  which  Tepan 

Sent,  with  a  robber  thirst  and  barbarous  strength, 

To  subjugate  the  fair  land  of  the  world — 

More  fair  for  courtesy  than  even  the  arts 

Which  reared  its  temples  and  its  palaces ; 

Held  them  at  bay,  until  his  chiefs  and  legions, 

Borne  down  like  cornstocks  in  a  whirlwind,  lay 

Along  the  wide  field  of  blood-wanting  war  ;  2 

And  sometimes,  past  these  scenes,  to  better  hours, 

Wherein  he  sought  a  mastery  of  the  lure, 

Far-reaching  through  the  arches,  low  and  dark, 

Which  are  the  entrance  of  the  eternal  world — 

That  greatest  wisdom  which  a  king  should  learn, 

Who  with  the  gods  would  find  himself  a  friend. 

But  these  were  only  sunbeams  in  his  clouds, 

And  often  from  their  flush  of  brief  delight 

An  unseen  spirit  plucked  him,  and  his  soul 

Went  darkly  out  from  its  serenity. 

For  sometimes,  keen  and  cold  and  pitiless  truth, 

In  spite  of  us,  will  press  to  open  light 


1  The  imperial  families  of  Tezuco  and  Mexico  were  at  this  period  allied, 
and  the  young  prince  found  a  temporary  refuge  within  the  palaces  of  hid 
relations. 

2  These  events  occurred,  according  to  Ixtilxochitl,  in  1418. 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  343 

The  naked  angularities  of  things, 
And,  from  the  steep  ideal,  the  soul  drop 
In  wild  and  sorrowful  beauty,  like  a  star, 
Prom  the  blue  heights  of  heaven  into  the  sea. 
In  the  dumb  middle  of  the  night  he  heard 
The  plaining  voice  of  one  l  who  died  for  him, 
Saying.  "Ilualeo,  let  my  wasted  blood 
Cement  the  broken  beauty  of  thy  throne, 
And  so  shine  evermore  upon  thine  eyes 
Like  bright  veins  in  the  marble."     lie  could  see 
His  pleading  innocence,  thrust  by  tyranny, 
Over  the  grave's  steep  edges,  to  the  dark, 
And  all  the  train  of  lovelight,  hitherto 
Drawn  after  his  firm  footsteps,  faded  off 
To  gray,  blank  mildew  ;  see  the  dying  smile, 
The  soul's  expression,  falling  into  dust. 
Sometimes,  in  pictures  which  his  fancy  made, 
Along  Tnzantla's  hills  he  saw  him  go, 
With  the  wild  scarlet  of  its  running  flowers, 
Tying  his  bundles  of  sharp  arrows  up, 
And  in  the  shadows  of  the  holy  wood 
Rest  in  the  noontide — lithe-limbed  antelopes, 
And  strings  of  wild  birds,  ruffled,  open-winged, 
Strewing  the  ground  about  him  ;  and,  at  night, 
He  saw  him  cast  his  burden  at  the  door 


long  aft-r  his  flight  from  the  field  on  which  his  father  ha.]  been 
the  prince  fell  into  the  hands  of  hii  em  ff  in  triumph 

tad  thrown  into  a  dungeon.     II- 
.nivance  of  the  governor  of  the 
'•  place  of  the  royal  fugitive,  and  pai  ty  with  his  hie.— 

Prcjcotl. 


344 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA, 


Of  the  clay  hut  wherein  his  mother  dwelt, 
Her  love  bewildered  into  wonderment, 
As,  with  a  hunter's  eloquence,  he  told 
How  his  quick  shaft  had  blinded  a  huge  beast 
That  needs  must  stagger  on  his  cunning  trap. 
The  tzanahuei's  warble  seemed  his  voice, 
Singing  some  boyish  roundelay  of  love, 
And  murmurous  fall  of  water,  like  his  coo 
To  his  pet  tigress,  penning  her  at  night. 

There  was  another  picture,  whose  dark  ground 
No  gleam  of  light  illumined  :  hands,  close-bound 
From  all  the  arrows,  and  the  jetty  locks 
Clipt  for  the  axe's  edge ;  brows  pale,  with  pain, 
And  sad  eyes  turned  in  mute  reproach  to  him ; 
And  this  it  was  that  wrung  his  misery 
To  that  worst  phase  of  all — the  terrible  sense 
Of  injury  done,  with  utter  impotence, 
To  lift  the  pallid  forehead  out  of  death, 
And  crown  it  with  our  sorrow. 

I  believe 
Such  griefs  make  many  madmen,  driving  some 
Into  the  lonesome  wilderness,  where  all 
That  fine  intelligence  which  shines  intrenched 
Fast  in  the  mortal  eyes  of  innocent  men, 
Throbs  fitful  through  the  film,  obscured  at  last 
To  the  scared  glaring  of  a  hunted  heast : 
And  others,  of  more  speculative  souls, 
Pushing  to  realms  fantastic,  where,  athirst, 
They  see  the  fountains  sucked  up  by  the  sand, 
And  hungry,  pluck  the  red-cheeked  fruits,  to  find 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  345 

The  morti tying  purples  which  make  mad 
Such  as  do  eat  and  die  not ;  and  where  dwell 
Shapes  incomplete,  with  brows  of  pale  misease, 
That  in  the  moon's  infrequent  glimmering 
Run  from  their  shadows,  gibbering  their  fear; 
Where  earth  seems  from  its  beauteous  uses  worn 
As  with  a  slow  eternity  of  pain — 
Battered  and  worn,  till  no  sweet  grass  can  grow 
Upon  its  old,  scarred  body,  any  more. 
This  was  a  grief  indeed.     No  stabbing  steel 
Strikes  through  the  dark  like  such  a  memory. 
And  every  day  he  went  into  the  past, 
And  lived  his  history  over,  setting  up, 
Against  each  false  step,  some  excusing  plea  : 
If  this,  or  this  transfixing  point  of  time 
Were  a  nonentity — if  such  an  act 
Had  been  beforehand  of  celerity — 
And  such  a  pretty  dalliance  with  chance 
Pressed  into  service, — he  had  held  secure 
In  his  own  hands,  the  destiny  which  now 
Stood  at  a  murderer's  mercy.     For  us  all, 
"Within  some  fortunate  moment,  good  is  lodged, 
And  chance  may  possibly  tumble  on  the  prize — 
But  vigilance  is  opportunity. 

I  think,  of  all  the  sweetest  gifts  that  be 
Strung  in  the  rosary  of  the  love  of  God, 
And  flung  about  us  mortals,  there  is  none 
Hath  such  divine  excess  of  excellence 
As  that  creative  and  mad  faculty 
Which  out  of  nothing  strings  the  lyres  that  ring 
15* 


346       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Along  the  shadowy  palaces  of  dreams, 
And  so  ring  on  and  echo  down  the  world, 
Till,  where  time's  circle  meets  eternity, 
The  trancing  shivers  of  rapt  melodies 
Crumble  away  to  silence,  and  fade  off. 
Blest  is  the  wanderer  out  of  human  love 
Who  hath  been  answered  by  this  oracle. 
What  need  hath  he  of  the  poor  shows  of  power, 
Who  can  charm  angels  out  of  heaven,  and  cross 
Their  light  wings  on  his  bosom,  in  his  song  1 
What  need  hath  he  of  mortal  company — 
Weak  heritors  of  passion  and  of  pain — 
That  he  should  care  to  cower  beneath  their  roofs 
What  if  his  locks  are  heavy,  drenched  with  dew- 
Beings  that  duller  mortals  cannot  see 
Will  stoop  above  him,  and  between  their  palms 
Press  them  out  dry,  or  the  wild  breeze  may  stop 
And  blow  them  loosely  open  to  the  sun. 
Widen  no  rings  about  your  fires  for  him 
Who  catches  the  white  mantles  of  the  clouds, 
And  round  his  bosom  in  the  chilly  night 
Gathers  the  golden  tresses  of  the  stars  ; 
For  no  abiding  city  men  might  build, 
In  the  flat  desert  of  their  quietude, 
Could  stay  him  from  his  long  bright  wanderings. 
The  sea  waves,  roughly  breaking  on  the  rocks, 
The  terrible  crash  of  the  live  thunderstroke, 
Or  the  low  earthquake's  rumble,  on  his  ear 
Fall  in  a  softer  music  than  on  yours 
The  lovely  prattle  of  your  lisping  babes : 


THE   MAIDEN   OF  TLASCALA.       317 

For  in  his  soul  is  a  transforming  power 
By  you  unapprehended  and  unknown. 
And  he  of  whom  I  sing,  shaping  his  wo 
To  the  charmed  syllables  of  poesy,1 
Built  visionary  kingdoms,  and  recrowned 
His  naked  brows  out  of  the  light  of  dreams. 
Even  as  the  white  steeds  of  the  desert  keep 
Before  the  clouds  of  hot  and  blinding  sand, 
Ran  his  wild  visions  forward  of  the  truth. 
Sometimes  he  sung  of  maidens,  shut  in  towers 
Of  unhewn  rocks,  cold  bowers  of  beauty,  where 
The  moonlight  blew  across  the  beds  of  love 
Tinged  with  the  scarlet  of  the  sacrifice  ; 
Of  the  blue  rfky  sometimes,  or  of  the  moon 
AYalking  night's  cloudy  wilderness,  as  walks 
The  white  doe  through  a  jungle ;  of  steep  rocks 
Burnt  red  and  pastureless,  where  strings  of  goats 
Climbed,  hungry,  to  the  rattle  of  picked  bones 
In  the  near  eyry  ;  sometimes  of  the  hour 
"When  in  the  sea  of  twilight  the  round  sun 
Sinks  slow  and  sullen,  and,  one  after  one, 
Circles  of  shadows  crusted  thick  with  stars 
Come  up  and  break  upon  the  shore  of  night. 
But  mostly  were  his  visions  sorrowful ; 
For  all  the  higher  attributes  of  life 

i  Neza-hualco-yotl,  Clavigero  says,  excelled  J  a  poetry,  and  produced  many 
compositions,  which  met  with  universal  applause.  In  the  sixteenth  century, 
his  sixty  hymns,  composed  in  honor  of  the  Creator  of  heaven,  were  celebrated 
even  among  the  Spaniards.  Two  of  his  odes  or  songs,  translated  into  Spanish 
verse  by  his  descendant,  the  historian  Ixtlilxochitl,  have  been  preserved  into 
our  time  ;  and  Mr.  Pre.-rott  ha*  given  us  prose  and  lyrical  versions  of  one  ot 
them,  in  his  Conquest  of  Mexico. 


348  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

Have  still  some  touch  of  sadness  :  love  and  hope 
Dwell  ever  in  the  haunted  house  of  Fear, 
And  even  the  God  incarnate  wept  to  see 
The  blanched  and  purposeless  repose  wherein 
We  lie  at  last — our  busy  cares  all  done, 
Shut  in  the  darkness  by  white  heavy  death, 
Like  dreams  within  the  hueless  gates  of  day. 

So  busy  thought  bloomed  into  poesy, 
As   buds   bloom   into   flowers  —  bloomed   and   was 

drowned 
In  storms  of  tears,  and  fell  back  on  his  heart, 
As  falls  back  to  the  earth  the  pretty  moth 
That  flies  into  the  rain — its  wild  wings  drenched 
From  beauty  to  the  color  of  the  ground. 
And  the  spring  sprouted,  and  the  summer  smiled, 
And  day  went  darkly  down,  and  morn  came  up 
And  ran  between  the  mountains  goldenly  ; 
The  wandering  wasp  shut  up  its  thin  blue  wings, 
Pricking  the  soft  green  bark  of  the  capote 
With  mortices — a  ceaseless  builder  he  ; 
Nympha  of  bees  hung  on  the  oaken  boughs, 
Feasted  the  birds ;  and  red,  along  the  grass, 
The  heads  of  burning  worms  like  berries  shone. 
Others,  with  yellow  venomous  prickles  set, 
And  coiled  in  globes,  stuck  bur-like  in  the  shrubs, 
While  from  their  nests  came  out  into  the  light 
The  black-downed  spider  and  brown  scorpion. 
At  night,  the  shining  beetles,  flying  thick, 
Glimmered,  his  tent-lights,  and  the  woods  hung  low 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA  3  1{.) 

Their  long  bright  boughs  —  green  curtains   shutting 

down 
About  hi>  slumber — while  the  blessed  dew 
Sunk  pearl-like  'twixt  his  long  and  uncombed  locks. 
For  whether  morn  ran  goldenly  along 
The  mountain  rifts,  and  with  her  kisses  broke 
The  blue  and  ruby-hearted  flowers  apart, 
Or  whether  night  fell  black  along  the  hills. 
Tezcuco'a  heir,  alone  and  seeptreless, 
Travelled  the  woods,  a  price  upon  his  head. 

There  was  a  cabin,  with  an  aloe  thatch, 
And  gables  of  cool  moss,  whereby  three  trees 
Ruffled  their  tops  together,  through  the  which 
A  red  vine  ran  convolved,  as  in  the  clouds, 
Blowing  and  blending  in  the  twilight  wind, 
A  vein  of  fire  runs  zig-zag.     South  from  the  door, 
A  fountain,  breaking  into  golden  snow, 
Cut  a  soft  slope  of  fresh  and  beautiful  green, 
With  its  superfluous  wealth,  at  evening  fringed 

its.  unprisoned,  slowly  feeding  home. 
.  Close  by  this  fountain,  screened  by  drooping  boughs, 
A  wheel  turned  idly  to  the  breeze's  touch, 
And  from  the  unbusy  distaff  the  teased  flax 
Twisted  to  tangly  wi<p>.     Here,  until  now, 
Spinning  among  the  birds,  a  peasant's  child, 
With  eves  poetic,  tawny  cheeks,  and  hair 
Dark  as  a  storm  in  winter,  hath  been  used 
To  sing  the  sun  asleep. 

Fate  is  discreet, 
Ami  grapples  as  with  hooks  of  steel  the  ends 


350       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Of  her  great  purposes  ;  therefore  the  maid, 
Who  sleeps  beneath  the  aloe  thatch  at  night, 
And  sings  and  spins  among  the  birds  all  day, 
Is  gone  to  meet  the  exigence  that  weaves 
The  dark  thread  of  her  story  with  my  song. 
Ah,  as  she  cuts  the  shining  jointed  stocks, 
And  packs  them  into  heaps,  tossing  away 
The  heavy  tresses  from  her  stooping  brow, 
Little  she  deems  their  sable  near  to  line 
The  pearly  rimming  of  Tezcuco's  crown  ! 

A  pall  of  clouds,  bordered  with  dun  faint  fire, 
Veiled  the  dead  face  of  day,  and  the  young  moon, 
Washed  to  her  whitest  splendor  in  the  sea, 
Took  the  audacious  pelting  of  the  waves 
Betwixt  her  horns,  nor  staggered,  and  so  clomb 
To  fields  of  sweeter  pasture.     In  the  west, 
A  ridge  of  pines,  that  burnt  themselves  to  flame 
An  hour  ago,  set  their  jagged  tops 
Black  in  th'  horizon.     Thence,  suddenly, 
Flitted  a  shape  or  shadow,  and  the  feet 
Of  the  Tlascalan  maiden,  Tlaara, 
Were  touched  with  prayerful  kisses.     Well-a-day  ! 
The  ear  too  deaf  to  hear — though  all  at  once, 
Sung  fifty  nightingales,  covering  the  woods 
With  undulating  sweetness,  as  a  cloud 
Of  yellow  bees  covers  a  limb  of  flowers — 
Drinks  eagerly  the  faintest  sound  of  praise, 
And  the  poor  peasant  was  less  firmly  held 
From  quickly  flying,  by  the  hands  that  clung 
To  her  robe's  hem,  than  by  the  kingly  brow 


THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLASCALA.  351 

Dropping  against  the  ground,  obsequious. 

Across  the  hills  she  heard  the  hot  pursuit, 

And.  tor  a  moment,  came  a  blinding  wave 

From  their  far  tops,  of  splendor  ;    then,  as  one 

Whose  foot  is  on  the  serpent's  head,  she  cried, 

"  <  >ff,  tempting  fury  !  my  weak  woman's  hands — 

Mock  if  thou  darest  ! — have  in  them  strength  enough 

To  bind  a  thousand  of  thy  black-winged  crew, 

And  hold  them  level  with  their  beds  of  fire. 

ft  is  most  false  that  they  are  strong  alone, 

With  a  cold  guard  of  virtue  or  of  fear, 

Who  keep  thee  from  them  always.     She  who  once 

Hugs  to  her  bosom  any  imp  of  thine, 

And  rends  it  after,  or  with  desperate  will, 

Wrenches  her  heart  from  its  infirmity. 

And  on  the  very  edges  of  the  pit 

Shakes  the  red  shadow  from  her  soul,  and  turns 

To  front  the  demon  that  has  dragged  her  there — 

Believe  me,  she  is  stronger  than  they  all 

Who  dare  not  wait  to  listen  !  " 

Oh,  to  such 
Doubt  not  but  that  some  piteous  god  will  come, 
Beauteously  whitening  down  the  blue  of  heaven, 
And  feed  their  souls  with  the  blest  sweetnesses 
Drawn  out  of  Mercy's  everliving  wells, 
Till  the  air  round  them,  with  tumultuous  joy 
Hangs  shivering  like  a  wilderness  of  leaves, 
And  drifts  of  light  run  rippling  through  the  clouds 
Like  music  through  the-  \k\wj-  of  cherubim. 
And  so  she  hid  him — in  among  the  st<»eks — 


352  THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Smothering  the  whispered  prayer,  "  I  am  thy  king, 
Hunted  to  death  :  wilt  have  the  damned  price 
That  a  usurper  sets  upon  my  head, 
Or  be  my  angel,  as  thou  look'st  to  be  ?" 

The  hungry  hunters  of  his  life  came  on, 
And  saw  the  maiden  at  her  quiet  work, 
Close  to  the  reedy  prison,  and  so  went 
Misguided  forward.1     Such  tumultuous  joy 
As  filled  her  bosom  only  they  may  know 
Who,  voyaging  beyond  mortality, 
Feel  the  prow's  grating,  golden,  on  the  stars. 
Forgive  her  for  that  moment  hesitant ; 
Forgive  her,  if  she  saw  the  aloe  thatch 
Of  the  clay  cabin,  where  all  day  she  spun, 
Widen  above  a  palace,  broad  and  brave ; 
Forgive  her  if  she  saw,  if  so  she  did, 
Her  jetty  trailing  locks  strung  round  with  gems, 
Drawing  the  eyes  of  princes  after  them ; 
Forgive,  for  she  was  human,  and  we  all 
At  sometime  have  had  need  to  say,  Forgive ! 
Far  from  the  banished  Eden  though  we  be, 
Some  beautiful  provision  meets  our  need — 
Slumber,  and  dreamy  pillows,  for  the  tired  ; 

1  The  prince  sought  a  retreat  in  the  mountainous  and  -woody  district  hy 
the  borders  of  Tlascala,  and  there  led  a  wandering  life,  hiding  himself  in 
deep  thickets  and  caverns,  and  stealing  out  at  night  to  satisfy  the  cravings 
of  appetite  ;  while  kept  in  constant  alarm  by  the  activity  of  pursuers, 
always  hovering  on  his  track.  On  one  occasion,  says  Prescott,  he  was  just 
able  to  turn  the  crest  of  a  hill,  as  they  were  climbing  it  on  the  other  side, 
when  he  fell  in  with  a  girl  who  was  reaping  chian  /  he  persuaded  her  to 
cover  him  up  with  the  stocks  she  had  been  cutting  ;  and  when  his  pursuers 
came  up  and  inquired  if  she  had  seen  the  fugitive,  the  girl  coolly  answered 
tnat  she  had,  and  pointed  out  a  path  as  the  one  he  had  taken. 


THE      MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  353 

For  labor,  plenteous  harvests,  and  for  love 

The  crowning  nuptial ;  for  old  age,  repose, 

And  for  the  worn  and  weary,  kindly  death 

To  make  the  all-composing  lullaby. 

But  nothing  in  this  low  and  ruined  world 

Pears  the  meek  impress  of  the  Son  of  God 

So  surely  as  forgiveness.     The  last  plea, 

O'er  slighted  love  and  sorrow  rising  sweet, 

Lit  for  a  time  the  ancient  realm  of  death, 

As  if  within  its  still  and  black  abysm 

A  new-born  star  ope'd  its  gold-lidded  eye, 

And  for  a  season  in  the  depths  of  hell 

Cooled  the  red  burning  like  a  cloud  of  dew. 

Like  to  two  billows,  tossed  and  worried  long, 

That  on  some  fearful  breaker  meet  and  close, 

Upon  a  desperate  point  of  time  there  met 

This  youth's  and  maiden's  unshaped  destinies — 

Met,  and  so  closed  to  one.     Oh,  pitiful ! 

Oh,  woful !  that  so  bright  a  tide  should  ebb, 

And  leave  along  this  good  life  as  it  does 

Shoals  of  dry,  barren  dust.     Somewhere  is  wrong ! 

And  night  was  past,  and  in  the  lap  of  day 
The  morning  nestled,  and  yet  other  nights 
Followed  by  other  days  had  come  and  gone, 
And  the  wild  sorrow  of  the  tempter's  voice 
Had  dwarlld  to  utter  silence,  yet  the  maid 
Had  loosed  her  clasping  never  on  the  cross,1 

-  curious  that  the  cross  should  have  been  regarded  as  an  object  of  reli 
pious  worship  where   the   light  of  Christianity  had    never  risen.     See  Peter 

-  Dreads,  as  quoted   by  Lord    Kingsborough,   in  his  Antiquities  of 


354  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

Bought  at  so  great  price  of  earthly  fame. 

But  its  rough,  thorny  wood,  so  heavy  once, 

Had  budded  bright  with  many  a  regal  flower. 

The  heir  of  kingly  generations  laid 

His  crown  upon  her  lap,  for  her  sweet  eyes, 

And,  for  the  zoning  of  her  fond  arms,  gave 

The  warrior's  belted  glory  :  lovers  they, 

And  blessed  both — he  calm  in  manhood's  pride, 

She  trembling  at  the  top  of  ecstacy. 

How  shall  I  paint  the  dear  delicious  hours ! 

No  lilies  swimming  white  in  summer's  waves, 

No  dove,  soft  cooing  to  her  little  birds, 

No  hushes  of  the  half  reluctant  leaves, 

When  the  south  winds  are  wooing,  passionful, 

No  bough  of  ripe  red  apples,  streaked  with  white 

And  full  in  the  fall  sunshine,  were  so  fair. 

The  blushes  of  a  thousand  summertimes, 

Blent  into  one,  and  broken  at  the  core, 

Were  in  its  sweetness  incomparable 

To  the  close  kisses  of  the  mouth  we  love. 

In  the  voluptuous  beauty  of  the  clime, 

That  prisons  summer  everlastingly, 

Tangling  her  bright  hair  with  a  thousand  flowers, 

Some  large  and  heavy — reddening  round  her  brows, 

Like  sunset  round  the  day,  what  time  she  lies, 

The  cool  sea  billows  climbing  to  her  arms — 

Some  white  and  rimmed  with  gold,  and  purple  some, 

Soft  streaked  with  faintest  pink,  and  silver-edged, 

Some  azure,  amber  stained,  and  ashen  some, 

Dropt  with  dull  brown  and  yellow,  leopard-like, 


THE     MAIDEN      OF     T  L  A  S  C  A  L  A  .  355 

With  others  blue  and  full  of  crescent  studs, 

Or  jetty-belled,  fringed  softly  out  of  snow — 

So  prodigal  is  nature  of  her  sweets — 

Dwelt  they,  the  past,  the  future,  all  forgot. 

M  Henceforth  thy  love,  soft-burning  like  a  star, 

Shall  stand  above  my  crown  and  comfort  me," 

Hualco  said,  and  Tlaara's  soft  cheek 

Flushed  out  of  olive,  scarlet,  and  her  heart 

Drank  in  the  essence  of  all  happiness. 

It  was  as  if  humanity  attained 

The  stature  of  its  immortality, 

And  earth  were  gathered  up  into  the  heavens. 

For  Love  makes  all  things  beautiful,  and  finds 

No  wilderness  without  its  pleasure  tent, 

While  Genius  goes  with  melancholy  steps 

Searching  the  world  for  the  selectest  forms 

Of  high,  and  pure,  and  passionless  excellence — 

Large-browed,  unmated  Genius — yearning  still 

For  the  divinities  which  in  its  dreams 

Brighten  along  the  mountain-tops  of  thought. 

She  could  not  pause,  but  birds  pecked  round  her  feet, 

Fluttering  and  singing  ;  if  at  eve  she  walked, 

The  clouds  rained  tender  dews  upon  her  head  ; 

Meeting  a  hungry  lion  in  the  woods, 

Grinding  his  tusks,  he  crouched  and  piteous  whined, 

Then  turned  his  great  sad  face  and  nVd  away — 

Love  was  her  only  armor,  yet  he  fled. 

IT*  r  wheel  spun  round  itself;  the  trickiest  goat 

k)  patient  for  the  milking  ;  jubilant, 
The  smooth-stemmed  com  its  gray-green  tassels  shook, 


356  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

As  she  went  binding  its  broad  blades  to  sheaves. 

Sunshine  which  only  she  could  see,  made  fair 

Even  alien  fields  ;  and  if  Hualco  sighed, 

She  put  a  crown  of  kisses  on  his  brow, 

And  drew  him,  with  her  smiling,  from  the  thoughts 

That  wandered  toward  Tezcuco's  palaces. 

And  for  the  vague,  unfriendly  fear,  that  made 

His  lessening  love  a  possibility, 

She  gave  into  his  hand  the  secretest  key 

Of  her  heart's  treasury.     Sometimes  they  walked 

Between  the  moonbeams  slanting  up  the  hills, 

In  ways  of  shadow,  edged  with  white  cold  light, 

Or  sat  in  solitudes  where  never  sound 

Fed  the  dumb  lips  of  echo ;  but  the  flat 

Of  desertness,  low  lying,  bare,  and  brown, 

Their  praises  like  a  verdurous  meadow  drew, 

And  the  black  nettle  and  rude  prickly  burr 

Challenged  of  each  some  tender  eloquence. 

Along  their  paths  mute  stones  grew  voluble, 

And  sweeter  voices  than  of  twilight  birds, 

Filling  Olintha's  mountain  solitudes, 

Flowed  out  of  silence  to  their  listening : 

For  silence  hath  a  language  and  a  glance 

May  burn  into  the  heart  like  living  fire, 

Or  freeze  its  living  currents  into  ice. 

Sometimes  he  told  of  maidens,  fair  as  she, 

That  for  his  sake  had  folded  in  their  arms 

The  awful  flames  of  martyrdom  ;  but  quick 

The  piteous  flowing  of  her  gentle  tears 

Dried,  in  the  burning  crimson  of  his  kiss. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA.       357 

What  was  't  to  them,  that  in  the  hemlock  woods  l 

Sad  priests  kept  fast  and  vigil,  with  stooped  brows 

Under  their  hoods  of  thorns,  low  from  the  light, 

As  once  the  chieftain  of  the  Aztec  hosts 

Heard  the  wild  bird,  responsive  to  his  thought, 

Still  sadly  crying  o'er  and  o'«r,  "  Tihui,"  2 

Warning  from  Aztlan  all  his  tribe  away? 

So  they,  in  every  murmurous  wind,  could  hear 

The  sanctifying  echoes  of  their  hopes ; 

Daily,  the  tremulous  arch  above  the  world, 

Resting  upon  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 

For  love's  sake  deepened  its  eternal  blue  ; 

In  the  red  sea  of  sunset,  not  a  star 

Swam  in  its  white  and  tremulous  nakedness, 

Doubling  the  blessed  pulses  in  their  hearts, 

That  seemed  not  for  that 'office  specially  made ; 

Such  wondrous  power  hath  that  fair  deity, 

Pictured  sometimes  as  tyrannous  as  fair — 

If  right  or  wrongfully,  I  cannot  tell, 

But  I  do  truly  think  there  be  few  hearts 

For  which  at  some  time  he  hath  not  unloosed 

The  blushing  binding  of  his  nimble  shafts. 

P     >r  Tlaara  forgot  that  ugly  death 

Burrowed  in  mortal  soil,  when  that  her  lord 

Kissed  her,  and  called  her  "  sweetest  ;"  all  her  joy 

Was  basemented  upon  a  smile  of  his; 

And  if  he  frowned,  the  sun  shut  up  his  light 

J  For  an  account  of  the  remarkable  fasts  kept,  solitary,  in  the  forests,  by 
the  Mexican  priesis,  in  limes  of  extraordinary  calamity,  tee  Clavigero.  1.  S.K>. 
Let  as  go.'*— CUtigero,  i.  112. 


358       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Ah,  Tlaara,  thou  dream'st ;  awake,  be  wise 
Already  the  sleek,  golden  cub,  erewhile 
Fondled  and  hidden  in  thy  bosom,  growls. 

As  some  poor  spinner  puts  a  little  wool 
Among  her  flax,  to  save  the  web  from  fire, 
So  she  has  tried  to  twist  with  her  poor  name 
Some  little  splendor.     Fate  has  baffled  her  ; 
But  when  the  mists  of  tears  shall  clear  away, 
She  may  attain  to  such  majestic  heights 
And  atmospheres  of  glory  as  shut  up 
Life's  lower  planes,  with  all  the  murmurs  made 
O'er  the  death-fluttering  of  fledgling  hopes — 
All  discords  horrible,  and  rude  complaints, 
That  rise,  when  at  some  direful  exigence 
Even  courage  staggers  in  its  way,  and  lays, 
Bestial,  its  radiant  front  against  the  dust, 
Loud  bellowing  out  its  awful  pain,  alone. 

When  a  friend  dies,  while  yet  the  face  has  on 
The  smiling  look  of  life,  't  is  wise  to  lay 
The  shroud  about  it,  and  so  go  again, 
Among  what  joys  are  left,  with  decent  calm. 
When  that  which  seemed  the  angel  of  our  heaven 
Shuts  close  its  wings,  and  its  white  body  shrinks 
To  a  black,  glistering  coil,  't  is  little  safe 
To  wait  the  growth  of  fangs.     And  when  we  find 
That  which,  a  little  distant,  seemed  to  us 
The  clambering  of  roses  on  the  rocks, 
To  be  the  flag  of  pirates,  shall  we  stay 
Hugging  the  coast,  and,  dropping  anchor,  hunt 
The  bones  of  murdered  men  ?  or  shall  we  wait — 


THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLA8CA1.A.  359 

Deserted,  and  betrayed,  and  scarce  alive — 
To  front  the  arrows  of  Love's  sinking  sun, 
And  tempt  the  latest  peril  1     Just  as  well 
The  obstinate  traveller  might  in  pride  oppose 
His  puny  shoulder  to  the  icy  slip 
Of  the  blind  avalanche,  and  hope  for  life ; 
Or  Beauty  press  her  forehead  in  the  grave, 
And  think  to  rise  as  from  the  bridal  bed. 
But  woman's  creed  knows  not  philosophy — 
Her  heart-beats  are  the  rosary  that  tells 
Her  love  off,  even  to  the  cross  ;  and  verily 
In  telling  this,  and  telling  only  this, 
Can  they  fill  out  her  nature  :  so  again 
Come  we  to  our  sweet  truster,  Tlaara. 

"  What !  goes  my  lord  alone  ?"    So  spake  she  once ; 
"  The  spinning  work  is  done,  the  milking  past, 
And  past  the  busy  cares.     See  !  the  green  hills 
Sit  in  the  folding  even-light,  so  fair, 
The  dark  house  could  not  hold  me,  but  for  thee. 
Nay,  chide  me  not,  I  will  not  speak  a  word, 
But  walk  so  softly,  love — blest,  oh  so  blest, 
Treading  the  earth  thy  steps  make  proud  before  me!" 
She  stood  on  tiptoe  waiting  for  the  kiss 
To  give  her,  in  the  accustomed  way,  reply. 
But  there  was  silence  at  the  first,  and  then 
The  sullen  answer,  "  I  would  be  alone." 
The  world  fell  sick  and  reeled  before  her  eyes, 
And  in  the  dead  and  heavy  atmosphere, 
Where  heaven  had  based  itself  a  moment  past, 
A  vulture  spun  down  low,  as  if  its  wings 


360       THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLASCALA. 

Could  make  no  further  head — all  else  was  blank. 

Poor  simple  girl !  a  little  while  the  tears 

Flowed  faster  than  the  blossoms  from  the  bough 

'Gainst  which  she  leaned,  despairing.     A  great  wo 

Crushes  the  fading  of  a  century 

Into  a  moment ;  and  fair  Tlascala, 

Smiling  so  lately  through  the  purpling  light, 

Lay  like  a  shoal  of  ashes,  dry  and  bare. 

But  hope,  however  smitten  or  borne  down, 

Is  quick  to  right  herself,  and  once  astir 

The  world  grows  young  again.     And  Tlaara 

Chid  presently  her  sighs  and  tears  away, 

For  the  seductive  whispering,  which  said, 

For  her  sake  crown  and  kingdom  had  been  lost ; 

Chid  them  away  with  quivering  lip,  and  smiled, 

And  sought  in  cares,  against  her  lord's  return, 

To  wile  the  lengthening  absence.     As  the  bird, 

Wounded,  not  death-struck,  gathers  up  its  wings, 

True  to  its  instinct,  she,  still  true  to  hers, 

Gathered  up  all  her  courage.     He,  the  while, 

Her  lord,  Hualco,  with  drooped  eyes,  and  brow 

Sullen  with  sorrow  and  remorseless  pain, 

Talked  to  his  troubled  soul  in  this  wild  sort : 

"  So  I  am  he,  who  in  yet  beardless  years 

Did  plot  the  ways  to  unkingdom  Maxtala  ; 

To  measure  his  vile  body  with  my  sword, 

And  find  what  space  would  rid  the  world  of  him ; 

Ay,  he  who  even  thought  to  be  a  king — 

Pining  and  love-sick  in  a  peasant's  cot, 

Where  I  can  never  rightly  apprehend 


THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLASCALA.  361 

The  distances  betwixt  me  and  my  crown. 

A  king  ;  my  crown  !     Nay,  it  was  all  a  dream, 

That  went  before  me  from  my  youth  till  now — 

More  than  a  dream,  it  was  a  life-long  lie 

Reaching  into  the  vale  of  years,  and  still 

A  brightness,  wrapping  up  some  old  white  hairs! 

And  can  I  see  it  fading,  and  yet  smile  1 

It  is  as  if  a  corpse  had  power  to  feel 

The  tying  of  its  hands.     My  brain  must  crack 

Or  I  must  slip  the  dusty  leash  I  wear, 

And  run  into  the  dark. 

"  See  !  the  dead  day 
Drifts  out  in  scarlet  light,  and  the  round  moon 
"Whitens  like  day-break  through  the  sullen  clouds. 
I  scarce  can  see  our  cabin  through  the  gaps 
Of  hills  and  woods,  the  night  comes  on  so  fast. 
Yes,  I  can  see  it  now — the  heavenly  eyes 
Of  that  sweet  lady,  pretty  Tlaara, 
Illumining  the  window  toward  the  sea. 
She  loves  me,  even  me,  who  have  beside 
No  love  in  all  the  world  ;  her  little  hands 
Part  softly  back  the  redwood's  rosy  limbs, 
Low  swinging  in  the  winds,  lest  they  should  hide 
This  sullen,  crownless  front — dear  Tlaara! — 
And  from  that  listening  I  was  near  to  be 
Plucked  off  by  devils  ;  I  was  well  nigh  blind, 
Still  gazing  upon  laurels  that  were  knit 
With  the  white  light  of  immortality. 
Sweet  Tlaitra,  be  patient,  while  I  mourn 

These  last  weak  tears  behind  the  heavy  hearse 
lti 


362  THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLASC ALA. 

That  bears  the  old  dream  from  me  :  then  again 
I  will  go  singing,  as  we  walk  at  eve 
Under  the  raining  of  the  forest  flowers, 
And  count  my  homely  verses  once  again 
By  the  brown  spots  our  gentle  leopard  has, 
And  beauty  to  our  cabin  will  return." 

Poor  Tiaara,  her  tamest  goat  came  close, 
And  leaned  his  head  against  her,  and  the  wind 
Rested  a  little,  kissing  her  wet  eyes, 
And  blowing  down  her  hair,  the  while  she  stood, 
Her  sad  thoughts  dropping  in  the  well  of  love, 
To  tell  how  deep  it  was ;  an  evil  sign — 
Only  despair  can  take  its  measurement. 
A  little  time  ago  the  sun  came  up, 
Shearing  the  curly  fleeces  from  the  hills  ; 
Now  he  is  dead,  and  the  pale  widowed  west 
Hath  slid  the  burial  earth  upon  his  face. 
"  Blind  eyes  of  mine,"  she  cries,  "  you  cannot  see,  ' 
Though  he  should  rise  and  climb  the  heavens  again, 
In  the  dim  days  to  come ;  nor  if,  at  night, 
Under  the  silver  shadows  of  the  clouds, 
With  some  red  blushing  star  the  moon  keeps  tryst — 
No  more,  oh  never  more  !  blind,  blind  with  tears ! 
Earth  is  stript  bare  of  beauty,  and,  oh,  lost ! 
I  have  forgone,  close  gazing  upon  thee, 
The  way  struck  open  through  the  grave  to  heaven, 
And  needs  must  vaguely  feel  along  the  dark  ! " 

"  Forgive  me,  sweet,  the  shadow  of  a  crown 
Swept  through  love's  sunshine,  and  my  heart  grew 
chill"— 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  363 

So  said  the  recreant  prince,  half  penitent — 

'•  But  not,  my  little  empress,  false  to  thee. 

Nay.  look  upon  me  close,  and  tenderly, 

For  I  am  like  the  child  that  pettishly 

Slips  down  the  nurse's  knees,  and  straight  climbs  up, 

Ending  his  pout  with  kisses — pry  thee,  smile, 

And  think  this  transient  mood  the  thing  it  was, 

A  hollow  bubble  on  the  sea  of  love, 

Which  thou  mayst  break  for  pastime,  pretty  one." 

As  one,  close  pressing  to  the  fountain's  brim. 
Crumbles  the  black  earth  off  into  the  wave, 
And  with  an  empty  pitcher  goes  away — 
So  turned  she,  thirsting,  from  the  fount  of  joy. 

"  Sweet  Tlaara,  thou  wrongst  me,"  he  replied  ; 
"  Thy  hands  put  down  the  flames  of  martyrdom, 
Dilating  for  me  like  the  eyes  of  fiends, 
And  with  their  gentle  tendance  through  long  days 
And  nights  of  exile,  made  me  strong  enough 
To  repossess  a  kingdom,  that,  henceforth, 
Shall  brighten  round  thy  beauty  ;  on  thy  lip 
I  press  the  seal  of  true  allegiance, 
My  joy,  my  queen  forever  :     Art  content  ] 
Or  shall  I  swear,  by  every  soldier's  tomb, 
Sunken  along  the  war-grounds  of  the  past, 
Iffy  soul  is  thine  henceforward,  nor  in  heaven, 
Nor  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  is  light  enough 
To  sweep  thy  shadow  from  my  royalty. 

maud  it,  and  I  make  the  sweet  oath  o'er, 
Till  yonder  brightly  rising  planet  creeps 
Into  the  rosy  bosom  of  the  morn, 


364 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCaLA. 


And  the  day  breaks  along  the  orient, 

White  as  the  snow-top  t  mountain.     Dost  thou  weep' 

Well,  let  thy  tears  wash  out  the  sad  mistrust 

Darkening  the  beauty  of  serener  faith, 

And  we  be  lovers  as  we  were  before. 

My  life,  young  empress,  is  involved  in  thine 

As  water  is  in  water :  mingling  waves, 

Catching  one  light  and  shade,  our  lives  shall  flow 

Till  they  strike  broken  on  the  ice  of  death. 

But  this,  our  happy  summering  of  love 

Must  sometime  have  its  ending.     Yesterday 

We  had  been  just  as  ready  as  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  not  be  a  better  time, 

So  let  it  touch  its  limit,  here  and  now." 

"  Oh,  my  Hualco,  oh,  my  best  beloved, 
If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  yet  remember  thou, 
When  glory  shall  grow  heavy  in  thy  hands, 
And,  with  its  burdening  circle,  thy  brows  ache, 
That  sober  twilight,  when,  erewr  hile,  weak  arms 
Folded  them  up,  thus,  with  a  crown  of  love. 
Oh,  think  of  her  who,  pressing  down  thy  cheek, 
Dared  to  look  up  into  thy  eyes  for  hope, 
Even  though  she  felt  its  lately  crimsoning  flowers, 
Burned  to  gray  ashes,  cold  beneath  her  lip. 
Think  how  her  trembling  hand  swept  off  thy  locks, 
As  one  who  lays  the  shroud  back  from  her  dead, 
And  gives  the  last  wild  kisses  to  the  dust." 
So  Tlaara  made  answer,  seeing  not 
How  night  stretched  tempest-like  along  the  sky, 
And  in  the  blustery  sea  the  tumbling  waves 


THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLASCALA.  365 

Shattered  the  gold  repeatings  of  the  stars, 
As  through  the  rents  of  darkness  they  looked  out ; 
Only  the  silence  heard  the  anguished  cry — 
"  Clasp  me  a  moment  longer  ;  once  again 
Kiss  me,  and  say  you  love  me  ;  once,  once  more, 
Put  back  this  fallen  hair,  as  yesternight ! 
Is  it  not  white  and  heavy,  like  dead  hair  ? 
This  burning  pain  must  bleach  the  blackness  out. 
I  cannot  hear  you  speak  ;  I  cannot  feel 
Your  kisses — closer,  sweet !  nor  yet — nor  yet ; 
I  cannot  see  the  eyes  that  said  to  mine 
Their  speechless  love  so  kindly — God  !  his  needs 
Are  all  above  my  answering — take  me  Thou." 
The  harvester  is  pleased  who  finds  a  flower 
Blood-red  or  golden,  in  the  dusky  wheat, 
Rustling  against  his  stooping,  but  the  child 
Laughs  for  its  beauty,  and  forgets  to  glean, 
Crumpling  its  leaves  with  kisses  manifold, 
Till  in  Her  pastime,  idly  curious, 
She  turns  it  inside  out,  and  finds  it  black 
And  rough  with  poisonous  blisters.     Such  a  child 
Was  Tlaiira,  and  such  a  flower,  her  love. 
She  saw  no  more  the  hills  of  Tlascala 
Crooking  their  monstrous  bases  in  and  out, 
To  give  the  light  capricious  stream  its  will — 
Nor  saw  nor  heard  the  never  weary  sea, 
Fretting  its  way  through  marl  and  Lronsand 
To  fiery  opal  and  bright  chrysophrase  : 
F<  >r  'twixt  her  eyes  and  all  the  sweet  discourse 
ire,  our  quiet  mother,  makes  fur  such 


360       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

As  wrap  their  pained  brows  in  her  green  skirts, 

Fear,  like  a  black  fen,  stretched  for  muddy  miles. 

She  only  saw  Hualco's  glorious  fate, 

And  in  its  shadow  a  poor  peasant  girl, 

Pining  forlorn.     Over  all  sounds  she  heard, 

Travelling  across  the  wild  and  piny  hills, 

And  over  many  a  reach  of  juniper, 

Prickly  with  brier  and  burr,  the  voice  of  war. 

Regal  with  sunbeams,  which  the  journeying  days 

Trenched  in  their  ancient  snows,  the  mountains  seemed 

To  mock  her  low  estate  ;  though  when  Love's  tongue 

Talked  of  the  self-same  splendors  once,  they  stood 

Serene  >ike  prophets,  under  whose  white  hairs 

The  lines  of  victory-seeing  thoughts  are  fixed. 

Beyond  their  bright  tops  great  Hualco  strained 

His  staring  eyes,  in  one  far-reaching  look, 

Fixed  on  that  glittering  pinnacle,  a  throne  ; 

All  hope,  all  love,  all  utmost  energy, 

To  one  determinate  purpose  crucified. 

So  in  her  pictures  Fancy  fashioned  him ; 

Nor  did  she  with  deceiving  colors  paint. 

A  nation  from  its  slumbering  was  roused, 

And  centering  to  one  mortal  blow  the  strength 

Of  all  its  sinews.     On  ten  thousand  shells 

The  strings  were  stirred,  axes  were  set  to  edge  ; 

The  while  the  morning  music  of  the  horn 

"Went  doubling  on  the  track  of  Tyranny, 

And  startling  up  the  echoes,  that  ran  wild 

Along  the  trembling  hill-tops,  in  full  cry. 

Ruffled  lay  Pazcuaro's  silver  waves 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  367 

Tinier  the  storm-  melodious,  and  the  belt 
Of  black  and  shaggy  pines  that  Arrio  wore, 
With  deadly  spears  of  itzli,  bristled  bright; 
For  the  roused  realm  was  risen  to  replace 
The  usurped  scepter  in  the  kingly  hand 
Of  its  long  exiled  but  true  sovereignty. 

So  ended  "  the  sweet  summering  of  love  " — 
The  royal  lover  of  the  forest  maid 
Went  back  as  from  imprisonment,  like  him — 
The  wondrous  Mexic  of  the  olden  time — 
Changed  to  the  morning  star,1  henceforth  to  shine 
Serenely  in  the  sky  of  victory. 
The  maiden  went  again  to  solitude, 
To  fight  alone  the  conflicts  of  the  heart, 
And  pray  that  Homeyoca  would,  in  love, 
Crop  the  wild  thoughts  that  climbed  about  a  throne, 
And  modulate  her  dreams  to  qualities 
Befitting  chaste  and  sad  humility, — 
But  oftener,  to  cry  in  bitterness, 
As  Totec2  from  the  house  of  sorrow  cried. 

The  blue-eyed  spring  with  all  her  blowing  winds, 
And  green  lap  brimming  o'er  with  dainty  sweets, 
Wakened  no  dulcet  light  about  her  heart ; 
Nor  nimble  dance  of  waves,  at  shut  of  eve, 
Under  the  charmed  moonlight,  nor  the  groves, 
With  all  their  leafy  arches  full  of  birds, — 
Not  maddened  Jurruyo's  wild  sublimity, 

1  Tulpicin  the  first  Mexican  kin?,  it  was  believed,  -.vis  changed  into  Venns, 
th^  Morning  Star,  to  which  a  slave  was  sacrificed  on  its  first  appearance  i;i 
every  autumn. — Lord  Kingsborough. 

3  Lonl  Kingsborough,  vi.  179. 


368 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA 


When,  from  his  hell  of  lava  tossing  high 
His  fiery  arms,  that  redden  all  the  heavens — 
As,  from  his  forehead,  down  his  beard  of  pines, 
Trickle  the  blood-like  flames — could  fix  her  gaze, 
Or  keep  her  thoughts  from  wandering  on  the  way 
The  footsteps  of  her  kingly  lover  went. 
The  goats  grew  wild,  for  Tlaara  forgot 
The  times  of  milking ;  idle  stood  the  wheel. 
A  loom  for  spiders ;  to  the  heavy  length 
Of  the  dark  shadow,  keeping  pace  with  death, 
Her  sighs  drew  out  themselves,  and  listening  low 
She  leaned  against  the  faded  face  of  earth, 
As  if  its  great  dumb  breast  could  move  with  life. 

The  lost  wayfaring  man,  whose  scanty  lamp 
In  the  wild  rainy  middle  of  the  night 
Burns  sudden  out — waits  patient  till  he  sees 
The  white-horned  Daybreak  pierce  the  cloudy  east, 
Travelling  alone  and  slow,  and  the  wet  woods 
Which  from  his  mottled  forehead  parted,  black, 
Swing  goldenly  together.     But,  alas  ! 
In  the  white  dome  of  gentle  womanhood 
Love's  sunrise  knows  no  fellow.     Sweetest  heart ! 
How  could  she  look  for  comfort  1  idols  made 
No  answer  to  her  praying  ;  and  at  last, 
Out  of  this  sorrowful  continent  of  life 
Her  visions  failed  of  resting  :  mortal  love 
Drew  back  the  hopes  which  vine-like  clomb  against 
The  columned  splendors  of  eternity. 
Forgive  her,  Thou,  whose  greatest  name  is  Love, 
If,  with  her  heaven  of  ruins  coupled  against 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA.       309 

The  chasms  that  divide  us  from  thy  throne, 

She  saw  imperfectly — saw  not  at  all — 

For,  'twixt  the  fhrtherest  reach  of  human  eyes 

And  the  eternal  brightness  round  about  thee, 

There  lies  an  unsunned  shoal,  a  blank  of  gloom, 

"Which  no  keen  continuity  of  thought 

Can  burn  or  blast  its  way  through,  till  the  grave 

Opens  its  heavy  and  obstructive  valves. 

Sometimes  she  plaited  berries  in  her  hair, 
And,  sitting  by  the  sea,  called  on  each  wave, 
As  it  had  been  her  lover,  to  come  up 
And  put  its  quieting  arm  around  her  neck, 
And  hug  her  close,  and  kiss  her  into  sleep  ; 
"  It  is  our  fault,  and  not  the  gods',"  she  said, 
"  If  we  outstay  our  pleasures,  pining  pale 
In  barren  isolation,  when  one  step 
Divides  us  only  from  the  realm  of  rest — 
Is  it  not  so,  oh  great  and  friendly  sea.] " 
But  the  waves  put  their  beaded  foreheads  down 
Against  the  moon,  late  wasting  in  their  arms, 
Now  blushing,  bashful,  for  her  beauty's  growth, 
And  left  her  waiting  on  the  wild,  wet  bank, 
Her  meditations  all  uncomforted. 
Sometimes  a  kindly  memory  would  pluck 
A  sunbeam  from  the  midday  of  her  love, 
And  grief  was  awed  to  silence,  and  her  heart 
Hushed  into  pulseless  calm,  as  is  the  bard 
What  time  some  grander  vision  than  the  r< 
Swims,  planet -like,  along  his  starry  dreams. 

Oh,  what  a  terrible  day  for  Maxtala 

16* 


370  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

Was  hovering  in  the  rousing  of  that  host, 

That,  robbed  unjustly  of  its  majesty, 

Cried,  like  a  whelpless  lioness,  for  blood  ! 

As  the  cencoatli,1  with  its  fiery  coils 

Illumining  the  darkness,  warns  aside 

The  step  of  the  unequal  traveller, 

So  might  the  glitter  of  that  hydra's  front, 

Under  its  bossy  wilderness  of  shields, 

Have  warned  the  tyrant  from  the  onslaught  off. 

For  stripling  lovers,  maidens  all  the  day 
Busied  themselves  with  plumes,  or,  sedulous, 
"Wrought  into  bracelets  gems  and  precious  stones  ; 
Some  green  like  emeralds,  some  divinely  white, 
And  some  with  streaky  brown  in  grounds  of  gold, 
With  milky  pearls,  and  sea-blue  amethysts, 
All  curiously  inwoven,  meet  to  please 
The  princely  eyes  of  the  discrowned  king. 
Through  the  green  passes  of  Tlacamama 
Struck  the  white  2  columns  of  young  warriors, 
Eager  to  wheel  into  the  battling  lines — 
Armed  with  the  triple-pointed  tlalochtli, 
The  maquahuitl,  and  the  heavy  bow 
Strung  with  the  sinews  of  sea-cow,  or  lynx ; 
While  stern  old  men,  their  gray  hairs  winding  back, 
With  most  serene  and  steady  majesty, 
From  helms  of  tiger's  or  of  serpent's  heads, 
Went  forth  to  death  as  to  a  festival. 

»  A  serpent  that  in  the  dark  shines  like  a  glow-worm. 

2  When  first  going  to  war,  young  men  were  dressed  in  a  simple  costume  of 
white. — Clavigero,  i.  365. 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  371 

Along  Mazatlan's  summits,  wild  and  high, 
The  gathered  legions  hovered  like  a  fleet, 
Dark  in  the  offing.     Ensigns  mingled  bright, 
Above  the  long  lines  lifted,  as  sometimes 
A  cloud  of  scarlet-hooded  zopilots  x 
Hangs  mute  along  the  sky,  foretelling  storms. 

Tizatlan's  heron,  wild  and  sad,  was  there, 
There  couchant  lay  Tepeticpac's  fierce  wolf, 
The  bundle  of  sharp  arrows  in  his  paws, 
With  Mexic's  dread  armorial  hard  by — 
The  eagle  and  the  tiger,  combatant ; 
While,  under  the  sea-city's  golden  net, 
Ocotelolco's  green  bird,  on  the  rock, 
In  lonely  beauty  waited  for  the  storm, 
Quick  sweeping  like  a  sea  loosed  from  its  bounds. 

So  was  Hualco's  kingdom  repossessed, 
So  was  the  tyrant  Maxtala  o'ercome. 
Oh !  it  was  piteous  when  the  fight  was  done, 
And  the  moon  stood,  o'er  the  disastrous  field,. 
In  pale  and  solemn  majesty,  as  one 
Fresh  from  the  kisses  of  the  dead,  to  see 
IT  is  harmless  corse  decked  out  with  all  the  shows 
Befitting  the  fair  form  of  royalty, 
While  all  his  locks,  torn  from  their  net  of  gems, 
In  bloody  tangles  hung  about  his  eyes, 
Blind,  but  wide  glaring,  and  his  unknit  hands 
Clutched  at  the  dust  in  impotent  despair. 

And  he  whose  hunger-sunken  eyes  erewhile 

'  B.  fore  a  «.torm,  these  birds  are  often  seen  flying  in  vast  numbers,  high  un- 
der the  loftiest  clouds. 


372       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Burned  through  the  forests,  where  he  wandered  once 
Like  a  lamenting  shadow — was  a  king ; 
And  the  delights  and  pastimes  of  a  court, 
The  expulsive  might  of  absence,  and  the  pride, 
Unfolding  and  dilating,  ring  by  ring, 
Under  the  sun  of  triumph — these,  ere  long, 
So  ministered  to  soft  forgetfulness, 
That  the  low  echo  of  forsaken  love 
Smote  on  his  heart  no  longer,  and  the  eyes 
That  of  his  praises  gathered  half  their  light, 
With  sorrowful  reproaches  vexed  no  more. 
Cold  god,  reposing  in  the  northern  ice, 
Whose  white  arms  nightly  reach  along  the  heavens  ! 
Search  out  the  stars,  malignant,  that  so  oft 
Have  crossed  the  orbit  of  divinest  bliss, 
And  draw  them,  with  some  pale  enchantment,  down 
From  the  good  constellations — all  their  lengths 
Of  shining  tresses,  making  them  so  fair, 
Coiling  like  dying  serpents,  as  they  sink. 
'T  is  not  so  much  premeditated  wrong 
That  fills  the  world  with  sorrow  and  dismay, 
As  influences  of  demons,  mischievous, 
Hurrying  impassioned  impulses  to  acts 
That  fast  and  penance  never  can  undo. 
This  is  my  theory,  and  right  or  wrong, 
'T  is  surely  higher  pleasure  to  believe 
That  men  are  better  than  they  seem,  than  worse. 
And  he,  this  prince  of  whom  my  story  is, 
Was  a  good  prince,  as  princes  be,  and  gave, 
On  every  day,  sweet  alms  and  charities, 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  373 

That  made  him  named  of  thousands  in  their  prayers  ; 

His  reign  with  deeds  of  glory  was  so  strewed 

That  they  still  shine  upon  us  from  the  past, 

As  emeralds  and  ivory  shine  along 

The  sand-track  of  some  perished  caravan. 

Houses  of  skulls,  that  erewhile  all  the  hills 

Made  ghastly  white,  he  levelled,  and  instead, 

Walled  with  tazontli,  pinnacled  with  gold ; 

And  strong  with  beams  of  cedar  and  of  fir, 

Along  the  ruins,  sacred  temples  rose ; l 

About  his  throne  stood  lines  of  palaces 

Kissing  the  clouds,  exceeding  beautiful 

With  porphyry  columns,  and  lined  curiously 

"With  that  white  stone  dividing  into  leaves ; 

And  baths  and  gardens,  and  soft-flowing  streams, 

Made  all  Tezcuco's  vale  a  goodly  sight. 

Schemes  pondering,  or  infirm  or  feasible, 

To  make  his  subjects  happy,  still  he  dwelt 

In  that  unruffled  air  that  may  be  peace, 

But  was,  nor  then,  nor  ever  will  be,  bliss. 

And  all  his  people  loved  him  more  than  feared, 

Nor  looked  upon  his  crown  with  envious  eyes  : 

Shall  the  small  lily,  growing  in  the  grass, 

Be  envious  of  the  aloe's  dome  of  flowers, 

That  keeps  the  blowing  winds  from  its  sweet  home  ? 

Or  shall  the  soft  cenzontli  hush  its  song 

And  pine,  in  the  green  shelter  of  the  bough, 

For  that  the  eagle,  silent  on  the  rock, 

Can  dip  his  plumage  in  the  sun  at  will? 

*  He  de  licated  his  temple,  siys  Prescott,  to  the  Unknown  God— the  C:iuse 
of  Causes. 


374       THE  MAIDEN   OF  TLASCALA. 

Once,  feasting  with  the  lord  of  Tepechan — 
A  vassal  warrior,  whose  mighty  arm 
-    Had  hewn  his  way  to  many  victories — 
To  do  him  honors,  with  her  ministries, 
There  came  a  damsel  so  exceeding  fair, 
That,  with  the  light  of  her  dark  eyes  withdrawn, 
A  shadow  over  all  his  kingdom  went ; 
But  in  his  heart,  (for  love  is  prophecy,) 
He  felt  that  she  already  was  elect 
The  bride  of  him  whose  festive  guest  he  was. 
So,  to  himself,  to  justify  his  thought, 
He  said,  "  This  old  man  must  not  wed  this  maid, 
For  that  the  grave  will  cover  him  too  soon, 
And  so,  young  beauty  be  made  desolate : 
And  yet,  perchance,  not  absolute  for  that, 
(For  all  the  burdening  weight  of  threescore  years 
Lies  like  a  silver  garland  on  his  brow,) 
But  that  I  know  he  cannot  have  her  love, 
Or  having,  could  not  keep  it:  that  were  false 
To  all  of  Nature's  unwarpt  impulses  ; 
It  is  as  if  a  budding  bough  should  blush 
Out  of  a  sapless  trunk ;  it  cannot  be — 
Else  is  harsh  violence  to  reason  done, 
And  all  true  fitness  sunken  from  the  noon 
Into  the  twilight  of  uncertainty. 
Can  the  dull  mist,  where  the  swart  Autumn  hides 
His  wrinkled  front  and  tawny  cheek,  wind-shorn, 
Be  sprinkled  with  the  orange  light  that  binds 

1  This  curous  history,  so  similar  to  that  of  David  and  Uriah,  is  related  by 
Pres:ott 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLA8CALA.       375 

Away  from  her  soft  lap,  o'erbrimmed  with  flowers, 

The  dew-wet  tresses  of  the  virgin  year? 

Or  can  the  morning,  bridegroomed  by  the  sun, 

Turn  to  the.  midnight,  and  be  comforted  ! 

So  for  their  larger  amplitude  of  weal, 

This  vagrant  fancy — for  't  is  nothing  more — 

Must  not  nor  ever  shall  be  consummate. 

For  this  true  soldier — ah,  a  happy  thought ! — 

I  '11  make  an  expedition  presently  ; 

For  now  that  I  bethink  me,  in  the  wars 

His  arm  might  wield  a  heavy  truncheon  yet; 

'T  were  good,  I  think,  he  wore  his  helmet  up — 

A  brow  so  rounded  with  grave  majesty, 

Would  strike  a  sharper  terror  to  the  foe 

Than  all  the  triple  weapons  of  a  host. 

This  strength  of  his  't  were  pity  not  to  show. 

He  hath  no  lack  of  courage,  but,  alas  ! 

He  does  not  know  his  'own  supremacy  ; 

Aware  of  it,  I  '11  even  dare  be  sworn 

This  harmless  stratagem  were  rated  right ; 

I  "11  make  a  hint  of  it  in  some  soft  way ; 

And,  for  the  princess,  there  may  chance  to  be 

Some  vacancy  i'  the  court — some  office  slight, 

Meet  for  the  gracing  of  her  gentle  hands. 

If  it  so  fall — I  know  not  if  it  will, 

(I. think  my  women  a  full  complement.) — 

She  shall  not  want  my  kingly  privilege 

For  any  pretty  wilfulness  she  chew 

To  wing  the  hours  and  make  away  the  grief 

That  needs  must  follow  the  great  embassy, 


376  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

(Forced  on  alone  by  sharpest  exigence,) 
That  takes  this  old  man  back  into  the  field, 
For  he  will  scarcely  hope  to  come  alive, 
I  sorely  fear,  from  the  encounters  fierce 
And  perilous  offices  of  bloody  war. 

When  sleep  that  night  came  down  upon  the  eyes 
Of  the  good  prince — for  he  was  good,  withal, 
And  did  such  acts  as  are  immortalized — 
He  saw  this  famous  lord  of  Tepechan 
Thrust  sidelong  in  a  ditch,  his  white  hair  stirred 
Under  the  howlings  of  a  mountain  dog, 
That  surfeited  upon  his  shrunken  corse ; 
But  the  maid  came  to  him  in  fairer  guise — 
He  heard  her  singing  through  the  palace  walls, 
Her  locks  down-flowing  from  a  wreath  of  pearls. 

This  was  a  dream,  and  when  the  king  awoke 
He  said  't  was  strange,  indeed  't  was  passing  strange. 
Nay,  quite  a  miracle,  that  sleeping  thoughts 
Should  take  no  guise  or  shape  of  reasoning 
That  ever  hath  possessed  our  waking  hours, 
But  balance,  rather,  on  insanity  ! 

If  dreams  are  not  the  mirrors  of  the  past, 
They  sometimes  do  forerun  realities  ; 
And  ere  the  day,  white  in  the  orient  then, 
Folded  with  striped  wings  the  evening  star, 
The  lord  of  Tepechan  had  taken  his  mace, 
And  sadly  the  fair  maiden,  in  his  shield, 
Was  weaving  feathers  for  the  field  of  war. 
And  if  the  king  had  any  troubling  thought 
Of  the  old  love,  awakened  by  the  new, 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  377 

He  said,  'T  was  pity  it  had  ever  been — 

Unequal  loves  were  never  prosperous  : 

Yet  it  was  scarcely  love — the  chance  caprice 

Of  hours  of  indolence — by  Tlaara 

Doubtless  forgotten,  for  the  self-same  moons 

Had  filled  and  faded  over  her  and  him; 

That  woman's  heart  at  best  was  like  the  stream 

Which  in  its  bosom  fondly  takes  the  flowers, 

Sown  idly  on  its  margin  by  the  winds, 

Or  palely  simple,  or  of  gorgeous  pride ; 

And  even  if  some  chance  wave  of  her  life 

Had  closely  held  his  image  for  a  while, 

The  tender  pallor  of  her  transient  grief, 

Under  the  summer's  golden  rustleing, 

Had  long  flushed  back  to  beauty.     But  at  worst, 

Say  that  she  loved,  and  of  desertion  died, 

Why,  thousands,  perished  in  the  wars,  were  ne'er 

With  pious  tears  lamented  :  and  his  realm 

Had  right  to  claim  a  princess  for  its  queen ; 

And  if  long  centuries  of  joyance  sprung, 

And  flourished,  from  one  little  profitless  life, 

Who  would  dare  call  the  sacrifice  unjust  1 

And  thus  he  laid  the  ghost  of  memory. 

So  like  a  very  truth  a  lie  may  seem 

I  think  the  elect  might  almost  be  deceived. 

Love,  that  warm  passion-flower  of  the  heart, 

Nursed  into  bloom  and  beauty  by  a  breath, 

Even  on  the  utmost  verge  of  human  life 

Dims  the  great  splendor  of  eternity. 

True,  some  have  trodden  it  beneath  their  feet. 


378  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

Led  by  that  bright  curse,  Genius,  and  have  gone 
On  the  broad  wake  of  visions  wonderful, 
And  seemed,  to  the  dull  mortals  far  below, 
Unravelling  the  web  of  fate,  at  will, 
And  leaning  on  their  own  creative  power, 
Defiant  of  its  beauty  :  but,  alas  ! 
Along  the  climbing  of  their  wildering  way, 
Many  have  faltered,  fallen — some  have  died, 
Still  wooing,  from  across  the  lapse  of  years, 
The  roseate  blushing  of  its  virgin  pride, 
And  feeding  sorrow  with  its  faded  bloom; 
For  not  the  almost-omnipotence  of  mind 
Can  from  its  aching  bind  the  bleeding  heart, 
Or  keep  at  will  its  mighty  sorrow  down. 
Our  mortal  needs  ask  mortal  ministries, 
And  o'er  the  lilies  in  the  crown  of  heaven, 
Even  in  ruins,  love's  earth-growing  flower, 
While  we  are  earthy,  showeth  eminent. 

When  the  calm  beating  of  the  pulse  of  time 
That  keeps  right  on,  nor  for  our  joys  or  griefs 
Quickens  or  flags,  had  measured  years,  unblest 
Or  bright,  as  fate  their  passage  made, 
Hualco's  fair  and  gentle  servitor, 
Faithless  and  recreant  to  the  veteran  chief, 
Within  the  folding  arms  of  royalty 
Sheltered  the  blushing  of  her  crowned  brows. 
And  Tlaara  !     Ah,  could  they  only  feel, 
Who  are  the  ministers  of  ill  to  us, 
That  we  are  hungry  while  they  keep  their  feasts  ; 
That  in  our  hearts  the  blood  is  warm  and  bright, 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  379 

Though  our  cheeks  shrivel,  and  our  feeble  steps 

Crack  up  the.  harvestless  ridges  where  we  starve! — 

For  desolate,  wronged  Tliiara,  was  left 

Only  the  wretched  change  of  misery. 

The  imperial  triumphs  sounded  through  the  hills. 

With  undertones  of  the  perpetual  songs 

Of  gayety,  and  splendor,  and  delights, 

Or,  right  or  wrong,  that  most  in  palaces 

Have  had  dominion  from  the  earliest  time  ; 

And  she  as  one  doomed,  innocent,  to  death, 

Fast  in  the  shadows  of  his  columns  chained, 

Saw  her  brief  visions  faded  to  the  hues 

Of  fixed  and  damnable  realities. 

Night  had  shut  up  her  little  day  of  love 

With  all  its  leafy  whispers ;  in  her  sky 

The  sunset  like  a  wivern  winged  with  fire 

Had  burned  the  flowery  thickets  of  the  clouds 

And  left  them  black  and  lonesome,  and,  like  eyes 

In  the  wide  front  of  some  dead  beast,  the  stars, 

Filmy  and  blank,  stared  on  her  out  of  heaven. 

I  said  she  knew  the  change  of  misery, 

The  pain  but  not  the  glory  of  the  crew 

Of  rebel  angels,  whose  undying  pride 

Like  a  bruised  serpent  towers  against  their  doom, 

Even  while  their  webbed  and  flabby  wings,  once  bright, 

Lie  wrinkling,  flat,  on  waves  of  liquid  fire. 

Sometimes  she  told  the  unbetraying  ghosts 
Of  her  dead  joys — the  story  of  her  life, 
Portraying,  phase  by  phase,  from  love  to  hate : 
"The  day,"  she  said,  "was  over :  on  the  hills 


380  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLA.SCALA. 

The  parting  light  was  flitting  like  a  ghost ; 

And  like  a  trembling  lover  eve's  sweet  star, 

In  the  dim  leafy  reach  of  the  thick  woods, 

Stood  waiting  for  the  coming  down  of  night. 

But  it  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  time 

That  thrilled  my  heart  with  tempests  of  such  joys 

As  shake  the  bosom  of  a  god,  new-winged, 

When  first  in  his  blue  pathway  up  the  skies, 

He  feels  the  embrace  of  immortality. 

A  moment's  bliss,  and  then  the  world  was  changed — 

Truth,  like  a  planet  striking  through  the  dark, 

Shone  clear  and  cold,  and  I  was  what  I  am, 

Listening  along  the  wilderness  of  life 

For.  the  faint  echoes  of  lost  melody. 

The  moonlight  gathered  itself  back  from  me, 

And  slanted  its  pale  pinions  to  the  dust ; 

The  drowsy  gust,  bedded  in  luscious  blooms, 

Startled,  as  at  the  death-throes  of  all  peace, 

Down  through  the  darkness  moaningly  fled  off. 

God,  hide  from  me  the  time  !  for  then  I  knew 

Hualco's  shame  of  me,  a  low-born  maid. 

I  could,  I  think,  have  lifted  up  my  hands, 

Though  bandaged  back  with  grave-clothes,  in  that  hour, 

To  cover  my  hot  forehead  from  his  kiss. 

And  yet,  false  love  !  I  loved  thee — listening  close 

From  the  dim  hour  when  twilight's  rosy  hedge 

Sprang  from  the  field  of  sunset,  till  deep  night 

Swept  with  her  cloud  of  stars  the  face  of  heaven, 

For  the  quick  music  of  thy  hurrying  step. 

And  if,  within  some  cold  and  sunless  cave 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  3^1 

Thou  hadst  lain  lost  and  dying,  prompted  not, 
My  feet  had  struck  that  pathway,  and  I  could, 
With  the  neglected  sunshine  of  my  hair, 
Thence  clasped  thee  from  the  hungry  jaws  of  death, 
And  on  my  heart,  as  on  a  wave  of  light, 
Have  lulled  thee  to  the  beauty  of  soft  dreams. 

u  Weak,  womanish  imaginings,  begone  ! 
Let  the  poor-spirited  children  of  despair 
Hang  on  the  sepulchre  of  buried  hope 
The  fiery  garlands  of  their  love-lorn  songs. 
Though  such  gift  turned  on  its  pearly  hinge 
Sweet  Mercy's  gate,  I  would  not  so  debase  me. 
Shut  out  from  heaven  and  all  the  blessed  saints, 
I,  from  the  arch-fiend's  wing,  as  from  a  star, 
Would  gather  yet  some  splendor  to  my  brows, 
And  tread  the  darkness  with  a  step  of  pride. 
For  what  is  love  1  a  pretty  transiency, 
An  unsubstantial  cheat,  which  for  a  while 
Makes  glad  the  commonest  way,  but  like  the  dew 
WThich  sunbeams  reach  and  take  from  us,  it  fades — 
Our  very  smiles  do  dry  and  wither  it. 
What  is  't  to  leave  the  washing  of  my  cheeks 
Out  of  its  flower-cups,  and  go  mateless  on 
Across  the  ages  to  eternity  % 
Farewell,  myprince,  my  king,  a  last  farewell ! 
My  love  is  all  for  fame,  and  from  this  hour 
Against  my  bosom  with  a  fonder  clasp 
Than  ever  given  to  thee,  I  treasure  it. 
Thy  queen  is  fair — I  give  thee  joy  of  her, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  thy  royal  state 


382       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Stoop  low  my  knee  to  say  I  do  not  hate  her ; 

She  has  no  measure  in  herself  wherewith 

To  gauge  my  nature ;  she  is  powerless 

To  lift  her  littleness  into  my  scorn  ; 

No  thought  of  hers  outreaches  a  plume's  length — 

If  any  time  I  cross  or  tread  on  her, 

'T  is  that  I  see  her  not  more  than  the  worm 

Knotting  itself  for  anger  at  my  feet — 

My  feet,  now  planted  on  the  burnt,  bare  rocks, 

Under  whose  bloodless  ribs  the  river  of  death 

Runs  black  with  mortal  sorrow.     Vex  me  not 

With  your  low  love  ;  my  heart  is  mated  with 

The  steadfast  splendor  of  the  world  of  fame, 

What  care  have  I  for  daisies  or  for  dew, 

The  quail's  wild  whistle  or  the  robin's  song, 

Or  childhood's  prattlings,  sweeter  though  they  be 

Than  rainy  meadows,  blue  with  violets  1 

The  walls  built  firm  against  the  massy  heights 

That  stay  me  up  so  well,  are  seamed  with  gold, 

Sparkling  like  broken  granite,  and  green  stalks 

Run  up  the  unfrequent  paths,  lifting  their  blooms 

Into  the  long  still  sunshine,  where  no  change 

Shall  ever  earth  them  up.     It  is  in  vain 

Ye  tempt  me  from  my  steady  footing  back 

To  the  dim  level  of  mortality. 

What !  think  you  I  would  leave  this  pain-bought  place 

For  Love's  soft  beckoning  ?     Nay,  ye  know  me  not. 

Though  the  wild  stormy  North  with  fretful  wings 

Flew  at  my  fastness  till  it  toppled  hard 

Against  hell's  hollow  bosom,  even  then 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  383 

Kecked  like  the  cradle  of  a  baby-god, 

I  would  not  yield  my  glory  a  hair's  breadth, 

But  gathering  courage  like  a  mantle  up, 

W<»uld  smile  betwixt  the  harmless  thunderbolts."' 

So,  with  a  thousand  idle  vagaries, 
She  cooled  the  fire,  slow-burning  out  her  life  ; 
And  when  the  fit  was  gone,  there  came  remorse, 
And  she  would  say,  "  Forgive  me,  piteous  gods  ! 
I  had  a  maddening  fever  in  my  brain 
That  made  me  turn  the  thorny  point  of  hate 
Which  should  have  been  bent  sharpest  on  myself, 
Against  the  heart  of  my  sweet  lord,  the  king. 
Nay,  wherefore  should  I  ask  to  be  forgiven] 
A  maniac's  bitter  raving  is  not  prayer — 
That  is  a  hope,  concentrate  and  sincere, 
That  reaches  up  to  heaven  ;  words  that  are  lipt 
By  the  anointed  priesthood,  day  by  day, 
May  need  more  to  be  prayed  for  than  the  curse 
Of  a  profane,  unmeditative  mood. 

"  Mine  !  he  is  all  mine !  she  may  bear  his  name. 
Or  in  the  golden  shadows  of  his  crown 
Strut  a  brief  day  ;  more,  call  herself  his  wife, 
If  that  a  sound  can  give  her  any  joy  ; 
But  if,  from  the  close  foldings  of  my  heart, 
She  can  undo  his  low  and  make  it  hers, 
A i ;d  me  forgotten — then  she  has  more  skill 
Than  any  woman  here  in  TJaseala. 
In  Borne  green  leafy  closet  of  the  woods 
I  will  go  fast,  till  that  the  maiden  moon, 
Walking  serene  above  her  worshippers, 


384       THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLASCALA. 

With  some  cold  angry  shaft  shall  strike  me  dead. 

My  cunning  soul  shall  free  my  body  yet 

From  these  wild  wasting  pains,  and  from  the  scorn 

Of  that  bad  woman  whose  most  wicked  wiles 

Have  wronged  the  excellent  king,  and  me  have  wronged. 

But  that  is  nothing :  why  should  I  have  said 

That  I  had  any  harms  ?  they  all  are  his. 

Else  will  I  go  into  some  ugly  cave     • 

Where  vipers  lodge,  and  choke  them  till  they  sting 

And  make  me  but  a  spirit.     I  will  build 

A  palace  with  a  window  toward  the  earth, 

And  train  white  flowers — my  lord  loves  best  white 

flowers — 
And  if  there  be  a  language  more  divine 
Than  love  knows  here,  I  '11  learn  it,  though  it  take 
Half  the  long  ages  of  eternity." 

There  came  into  the  groves  of  Tlascala 
An  old  man  from  the  wars,  where  he  had  worn 
Commands  and  victories,  and  won  such  fame 
That  with  the  names  of  gods  his,  intertwined, 
Was  seen  in  temples,  yet  by  some  great  pain 
So  bowed  that  even  the  basest  pitied  him ; 
And  he,  to  soothe  her  grief  with  other  grief, 
Recited  all  the  story  of  his  life : 
How  a  king's  hands  unlocked  from  his  gray  hairs 
The  clasped  arms  of  tenderness,  and  struck 
His  bright  hopes  into  ruins,  so  that  life 
Had  lingered  on,  a  sorrowful  lament, 
Waking  no  piteous  echo  but  the  grave's. 
"  But  thou,"  he  said,  "  fair  maiden,  thou  and  I — 


THE     MAIDEN*     OF      TLASCALA.  385 

•  killings  ill  befit  the  sunset  time 
That  folds  earth's  shadow,  like  a  poison  flower, 
And  leaves  life's  last  waves  brokenly  along 
The  unknown  borders  of  eternity. 
'T  is  an  extremity  that  warns  us  back 
From  staggering  on,  alas  !  we  know  not  what. 
With  hatred's  damning  seal  upon  our  souls, 
How  shall  we  ask  for  mercy  1     Shall  the  gods 
Forgive  the  unforgiving  ?  or  sweet  Peace 
The  red  complexion  of  the  scorner's  cheek 
Fold  to  her  quiet  bosom  ?     Nay,  my  child, 
We  have  not  in  the  world  an  enemy 
Bad  as  that  pride,  which  sets  its  devil  strength 
Against  the  grave,  the  gods,  and  everything." 
Then  she  who  was  so  meekly  calm  before, 
Half  rising  out  of  death,  as  if  that  plea 
Tightened  the  coil  of  wo  about  her  heart, 
Answered,  "  What  demon  comes  to  torture  mi 
Forgive  !     The  word  sounds  well  enough,  in  sooth  ; 
But  say  it  to  the  tigress,  when  she  licks 
Their  streaky  beauty  from  the  smoking  bli 
That  drenches  her  dead  cubs  :  and  will  she  fawn, 
And  her  fierce  eyes  grow  meekly  sorrowful, 
And  her  dilated  nostril  in  the  dust 
Cower  humbly  at  your  feet  ?     I  tell  you,  no  ! — 
That  is  a  word  for  injury  to  use 
In  penitent  supplication  ;  not  for  her, 
Whose  heartstrings  quiver  in  the  torturer's  hand. 
I  know  no  use  for  it ;  nor  gods  nor  men, 
re  of  us  f  >8i  >f  a  foe 

17 


386       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Till  his  true  grief  give  warranty  to  us 

That  the  forgiven  may  be  trusted  too. 

Dying  !  thou  sayest  I  'm  dying !  yes,  't  is  true  ! 

I  feel  the  tide  outflowing  ! — and  for  this 

Shall  I  in  womanish  weakness  falter  out, 

'  See,  piteous  gods  !  how  I  forgive  this  man, 

And  lovingly  kiss  his  murderous  hand,  withal, 

And  so,  sweet  Homeyoca,  rest  my  soul ! ' 

Urge  me  no  longer  !  in  the  close,  cold  grave 

The  heart  is  done  with  aching,  and  the  eyes 

Are  troubled  with  love's  changes  never  more. 

The  palace  splendors  cannot  reach  me  there, 

Nor  pipes  nor  dances  wake  my  heavy  sleep — 

The  dead  are  safe.     Look,  friend,  is  that  the  day 

Breaking  so  white  along  the  cloudy  east  ? 

Not  since  the  fading  of  my  lovelit  dream 

Have  I  beheld  a  light  so  heavenly. 

Nature  seems  all  astir  ;  the  tree-tops  move 

As  with  birds  going  through  them,  and  the  dews 

Hang  burning,  lamp-like,  thick  among  the  leaves. 

All  the  long  year  past  I  have  risen  betimes, 

For  sake  of  morning  purples  and  rich  heaps 

Of  red-brown  broideries  —  shaping  in  my  thought 

The  gorgeous  chamber  of  a  queen,  the  while 

I  penned  my  goats  for  milking  ;  but  till  now, 

The  sunstreaks  have  run  glistering,  round  the  rocks, 

Or  doubled  up  the  clouds  like  snakes,  dislodged. 

Once  I  remember,  when  I  staid,  alone, 

Hunting  along  the  woods — my  playfellows 

Gone  homeward,  dragging  cherry -boughs  and  grapes — 


THE      MAIDEX      OF      TLASCHA.  387 

A  brooding  splendor,  large  about  me  shone, 

As  if  the  queen  moon  met  me  in  my  way, 

And  in  her  white  hands  held  me  for  an  hour. 

That  night  my  mossy  bed  was  covered  bright 

With  skins  of  ounces  ;  drowsing  into  sleep, 

I  heard  the  simples  simmering  at  the  fire  ; 

Heard  my  scared  housemates  whispering  each  to  each 

That  I  was  marked  and  singled  out  for  harm. 

Like  buds  that  sprout  together  on  one  bough, 

Brightening  one  window,  so  we  grew  and  bloomed — 

1  and  those  merry  children  ;  some  are  gone 

To  the  last  refuge —  some  contented  stay 

Along  the  valleys  where  the  hedgerows  keep 

The  summer  grass  bright  longest.    When  we  played 

On  hill  or  meadow,  oft  I  left  the  sports 

To  climb  the  rough  bare  sea-cliffs ;  when  we  sung 

I  mocked  the  screaming  eagle  ;  when  we  sought 

Flowers  for  our  pastimes,  I  was  sure  to  bring 

The  brightest  and  most  deadly — 't  was  the  bent 

Of  my  audacious  nature.     Like  the  dove, 

That  foolish  sits  upon  the  serpent's  eggs, 

Nor,  till  she  feels  beneath  her  pretty  wings 

The  stirring  of  the  cold  white-bellied  brood, 

Flies  to  the  shelter  of  her  proper  home, 

So  has  it  been  with  me  ;  soft,  I  untied 

The  hands  that  set  the  pitfall.     I  am  down, 

Yet  proud  Hualco,  girt  in  armor,  fears 

To  leap  into  the  dark  with  me,  and  take 

The  embrace  of  my  weak  arm-;.      Erect  and  free 

He  dare  not  mock  me,  fallen  and  in  bonds; 


388  THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLASCALA. 

For  who  would  tempt  the  hungry  lioness 

With  the  fresh  look  of  blood  1     Though  I  were  dead, 

If  he  were  near,  my  stagnant  life  would  stir, 

And  I  would  close  upon  immortal  power 

To  crack  the  close  grave  open  and  come  up, 

To  scare  him  whiter  than  his  marriage  bed. 

It  cannot  he,  if  justice  be  alive, 

That  he  shall  hover,  ghoul-like,  round  my  corse, 

And  blight  the  simple  flowers  I  change  into ; 

It  cannot  be  that  the  great  lidless  eye 

Of  Truth  will  never  stare  into  his  heart, 

And  search  its  sinful  secrets,  withering  off 

The  leprous  scales  of  perjury  wherein 

They  are  peeled  up. 

"  Ye  hated,  monstrous  things, 
Whose  trade  is  torment,  in  your  troughs  of  fire 
Rock  idly,  drawing  back  your  ugly  heads 
Into  their  proper  caverns :  no  sharp  tooth 
Wounds  like  the  stinging  of  a  conscience  roused ! 
Leave  him  to  that :  he  cannot  'scape  it  long. 
I  pray  no  mercy ;  beyond  mortal  strength 
Men  may  be  tempted — I  am  human,  too. 
If,  thirsting  in  a  desert,  one  draw  near 
With  golden  cups  of  water  in  his  hands, 
How  hardly  do  we  fill  our  mouths  with  dust ; 
If  fever  parch  us,  pleasant  is  the  dew 
Of  kisses  dropping  cold  against  the  cheek ; 
And  brows  like  mine  that  the  wild  rains  have  wet, 
Take  kindly  to  the  shelter  of  a  crown. 
Plead  with  me  as  you  will :  since  love  is  lost, 


THE      MAIDEN      OF      Tl.  ABC  ALA.  3^9 

I  have  small  care  for  any  blackest  storm 

That  e'er  may  mock  my  gray  imhonored  hairs. 

Lite's  unlinked  chains,  in  the  quick  opening  grave, 

May  rust  together — this  is  ail  my  hope. 

I  scorn  thee  not,  old  man  !  no  haunting  ghost, 

Born  of  the  darkness  of  love's  perjury, 

Crosses  the  white  tent  of  thy  dreaming  now  ; 

And  if  thy  palsy -shaken  years,  or  death, 

Move  thee,  in  solacing  confessional, 

To  register  forgiveness  of  all  foes — 

I  speak  not  now,  my  friend,  to  keep  thee  back, 

But,  for  myself— I  tell  thee,  I  have  loved, 

More  than  I  have  the  gods,  this  faithless  king ; 

And  feeling  that  for  this  my  doom  was  sealed, 

Have  I  in  sorrow  cried  unto  the  saved, 

'  From  the  high  walls  of  Mercy  lean  sometimes, 

And,  parting  the  thick  clouds  that  roof  the  lost, 

Give  me  the  comfort  of  some  blessed  sign 

That  tells  me  he  is  happy.'     That  is  passed  ! 

Fray,  if  thou  wilt — my  lips  are  dumb  of  prayer." 
Struck  with  the  lovely  ruin,  ebbing  life 

Sent  for  a  moment  its  live  currents  back, 
lling  his  shrunken  veins  to  knotty  blue  ; 

And  a  faint  hope  illumined  his  old  eyes, 

As  if  the  sea  of  anguish  lost  a  wave  ; 

And  kneeling  humbly  at  her  feet,  he  said — 
Ye  gods  !  reach  lovingly  across  the  grave 

To  the  great  sorrow  of  this  death-winged  prayer, 

And  for  its  sake  about  this  sweet  soul  wrap 

Blest  immortality  !  be  piteous,  Heaven, 


390  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

For  she  is  murdered  by  inconstancy  ! 
Bend  softly  low,  and  hear  her  cruel  wrongs 
Plead  for  her  who  will  plead  not  for  herself. 
"  I  had  a  wound  erewhile,  and  now,  alas ! 
It  "bleeds  afresh  to  see  her  die  so  proud ; 
Yet  doth  she  make  pride  beautiful,  and  lies 
Drowsing  to  death  in  its  majestic  light, 
Like  a  bee  sleeping  in  a  golden  flower. 
.  The  hot  salt  waters  brim  up  to  my  eyes, 
To  think  of  her,  so  fit  for  life's  delights, 
Buried  down  low  in  the  brown  heavy  earth, 
Where  the  rude  beast  may  tread  and  nettles  grow. 
I  have  seen  death  in  many  a  fearful  form, 
For  I  have  been  a  soldier  all  my  life ; 
Have  pillowed  on  my  breast  a  thousand  times 
Some  comrade  in  his  last  extremity  ; 
But  now  my  heart,  unused  to  such  a  strait, 
Plays  the  weak  woman  with  me.     Fighting  once 
In  the  thick  front  of  battle,  I  beheld 
Our  grim  foe  open  wide  his  red-leaved  book ; 
I  felt  his  cold  hand  touch  me  ;  saw  him  fix 
His  filmy  eyes  and  write,  I  thought,  my  name ; 
Yet  I  was  calm,  and  laying  down  my  lance, 
Sought  to  embrace  him  as  a  soldier  should. 
I  was  young  then,  and  fair  luxuriant  locks 
Hung  thick  about  my  brows ;  life  had  no  chance 
I  feared  to  combat  with  a  single  hand  ; 
Now  I  am  better  spared — old  and  unfit 
For  wars  or  gamesome  pastimes — but  have  lost 
The  sweet  grace  of  a  brave  surrendering. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA.       391 

Oh,  I  have  scarce  a  minute  more  to  live ; 
I  feel  the  breaking  up  of  human  scenes ; 
Time,  block  your  swiftly  moving  wheels,  I  pray, 
And  make  delay,  for  pity  ;  Evening,  keep 
Your  blushing  cheek  under  the  sun  awhile, 
And  give  my  gray  hairs  one  repentant  hour  ! 
My  vision  cannot  fix  you,  my  sweet  child ; 
Undo  my  helm,  and  lay  it  with  my  bow — 
Nay — 't  is  no  matter — lay  it  anywhere. 
So,  sit  and  sing  for  me  some  mournful  song, 
And  I  will  grow  immortal,  in  the  dream 
That  you  are  that  most  fair  and  gentle  maid 
Who  tended  once  the  chief  of  Tepechan." 

I  know  not  if  'tis  true,  they  often  say 
Of  this  intenser  action  of  the  mind, 
That  it  is  madness  :  she  of  whom  I  sing, 
Lost,  loving  Tlaara,  in  realms  apart 
From  joy  or  sorrow,  made  herself  a  world, 
Nor  sight  she  saw  nor  sound  she  heard  they  knew 
Who  followed,  pitying,  all  her  wayward  steps, 
Or  added  wonder  at  her  strange  wild  words. 

One  sunny  summer  day  in  Tlascala, 
Midway  from  its  warm  fields  to  where  its  peak, 
That  slept  in  snows  eternal,  calmly  shone, 
She  from  a  mountain  gazed,  as  set  the  sun, 
Down  on  the  mightiest  and  the  loveliest  land 
In  history  seen  or  in  prophetic  dreams. 
But  not  Tezcuco  Chalco,  Xalcotan, 
Upon  whose  waves  gay  moved  the  fisher's  boats, 
Nor  towers,  nor  temples,  nor  fair  palaces, 


392  THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA. 

Nor  groves  that  rose  in  green  magnificence, 
One  glance  could  win  from  her  far-looking  eyes. 
In  natural  music  died  the  beautiful  day, 
Grew  black  the  bases  of  the  terraced  hills, 
And  their  mid  regions,  of  a  slumberous  blue, 
Faded  to  roseate  silver  toward  the  skies, 
Along  whose  even  field  the  horned  moon 
Walked,  turning  golden  furrows  on  the  clouds. 
At  last  was  set  the  night's  most  dark  eclipse, 
And  yet  she  saw  or  seemed  to  see  arise 
Tezcuco's  capital,  within  whose  walls 
What  maddening  scenes  her  jealous  fancy  drew ! 

The  midnight  passed,  and  lifting  up  her  eyes, 
From  that  long  vigil,  she  beheld  afar 
The  awful  burning  of  volcanic  fires, 
Which  seemed  as  if  had  fled  ten  thousand  stars 
From  all  their  orbits,  leaving  heaven  in  gloom, 
Save  where  they  crashed  in  terrible  fire  alone, 
Crashed  in  tumultuous  rage  ;  as  if  each  one, 
Fearful  of  Night,  claimed  the  most  central  heats. 
She  saw  unmoved,  for  now  was  left  no  more 
Or  fear  or  hope — the  ultimate  secret  read 
Of  that  too  common  but  dread  history. 
She  only  said,  how  calmly  !  "  The  slim  reed 
That  grows  beside  the  most  untravelled  road, 
With  its  wild  blossoms  yet  may  bless  the  eyes 
Of  some  chance  pilgrim ;  over  the  dead  tree 
Mosses  run  bright  together  ;  in  the  hedge 
The  prickles  of  the  thistle's  bluish  leaves 
Hold,  all  day,  spike-like,  shining  globes  of  dew ; 


THE      MAIDEN      OF      TLASCALA.  393 

Even  from  the  stonyest  crevice,  some  stray  thorn 
May  crook  its  knotty  body  toward  the  sun. 
And  give  the  ant-hill  shelter,  but  my  death 
Will  desolate  no  homely  spot  of  earth. 
No  eyes,  when  I  am  gone,  will  seek  the  ground; 
No  voice  will  falter,  when  the  flowers  come  up— 
'  If  she  were  only  with  us  !  such  a  time 
We  were  so  blest  together.'     I  would  leave, 
(My  frailty  and  my  follies  all  forgot) 
A  pleasant  memory  somewhere.     As  we  look 
With  pining  eyes  upon  the  faded  year, 
Forgetful  of  the  vexing  winds,  that  took 
The  green  tops  of  the  woods  down  ;  picking  bare 
The  limbs  of  shining  berries  and  gay  leaves — 
So  would  I  leave  some  friend  to  think  of  me. 
The  wild  bird,  when  its  mate  dies,  stays  for  grief, 
Sad,  under  lonesome  briers  ;  but,  mateless,  I 
Fall  like  a  pillar  of  the  desert  dust, 
Struck  from  its  barren  drifting  in  the  waste — 
No  twig  left  wilting,  with  its  root  unearthed, 
White  bleaching  in  the  sun — no  insect's  wing, 
Trembling,  uncertain  for  its  lighting,  lost. 
Like  to  the  star  that  in  night's  black  abysm 
Trails  itself  out  in  light,  the  human  heart 
Wastes  all  its  life  in  love — that  sacrifice 
The  consummation  of  diviner  l»li<s 
Than  he  can  feel,  who,  looking  from  a  dream 
Sees  palpable,  his  soul's  unchambered  thoughts 
Moving  along  the  age^,  calm  and  bright, 
Like  mighty  wings,  spread  level.     It  is  well 
17* 


394       THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

Earth's  fair  things  fade  so  soon,  else  for  their  sake 

Mortals  would  slip  from  their  eternity, 

And  pleased,  go  downward  from  the  hills  of  heaven, 

Hurtled  to  death  like  beasts  ;  nay,  even  they, 

Decked  for  the  shambles,  impotently  shake 

The  flowers  about  their  foreheads — madly  wise. 

Oh,  Love,  thou  art  almost  omnipotent ! 

Thy  beauty,  more  than  faith  or  hope,  at  last, 

Lights  the  black  ofnng  of  the  noiseless  sea. 

'T  is  hard  to  leave  thy  sweetest  company 

And  turn  our  steps  into  the  dark,  alone  ; 

If  he  were  waiting  for  me  I  could  pass 

Death  and  the  grave — yea,  hell  itself,  unharmed. 

In  the  gray  branches  of  the  starlit  oaks, 

I  hear  the  heavy  murmurs  of  the  winds, 

Like  the  low  plaints  of  evil  spirits,  held 

By  drear  enchantments  from  their  demon  mates. 

Another  night-time,  and  I  shall  have  found 

A  refuge  from  their  mournful  prophecies." 

Then,  as  if  seeing  forms  none  else  could  see, 
With  deepening  melancholy  in  each  word, 
She  said,  "  Come  near,  and  from  my  forehead  smooth 
These  long  and  heavy  tresses,  still  as  bright 
As  when  their  wave  of  beauty  bathed  the  hand 
That  unto  death  betrayed  me.     Nay,  'tis  well ! 
I  pray  you  do  not  weep  ;  no  other  fate 
Were  half  so  fitting  for  me.     On  the  grave 
Light,  from  the  open  gate  of  Peace,  is  laid, 
And  Faith  leans  yearningly  away  to  heaven  ; 
But  life  hath  glooms  wherein  no  light  may  come. 


THE    MAIDEN    OF    TLASCALA.  395 

There,  now  I  think  I  have  no  further  need — 
For  unto  all,  at  last,  there  comes  a  time 
When  no  sweet  care  can  do  us  any  good ! 
Not  in  my  life  that  I  remember  of, 
Could  my  neglect  have  injured  any  one, 
And  if  I  have,  by  my  officious  love, 
Thrown  harmful  shadows  in  the  way  of  some, 
Be  piteous  to  my  natural  weaknesses — 
I  never  shall  offend  you  any  more  ! 

"And  now,  most  melancholy  messenger, 
Touch  mine  eyes  gently  with  Sleep's  heavy  dew  ■, 
I  have  no  wish  to  struggle  from  thy  arms, 
Nor  is  there  any  hand  would  hold  me  back. 
The  night  is  very  dismal,  yet  I  see, 
Over  yon  hill,  one  bright  and  steady  star 
Divide  the  darkness  with  its  fiery  spear, 
And  sprinkle  glory  on  the  lap  of  earth, 
And  the  winds  take  the  sounds  of  lullabies. 
Fretful  of  present  fortune  are  we  all, 
Still  to  be  blest  to-morrow ;  through  the  boughs 
Murmurous  and  cool  with  shadows,  we  reach  out 
Our  naked  arms,  and  when  the  noontide  heat 
Consumes  us,  talk  of  chance,  and  fate. 
Even  from  the  lap  of  Love  we  lean  away 
Like  a  sick  child  from  a  kind  nurse's  arms. 
And  petulantly  tease  for  any  toy 
A  hand-breadth  out  of  reach  ;  and  fr<»rn  the  way 
Where  hedge  and  harvest  blend,  irregular, 
Their  bordering  of  green  and  gold,  we  turn 
And  climb  up  ledges  rough  and  verdurele 


396 


THE    MAIDEN    OF    TLASCALA. 


And  when  our  feet,  through  weariness  and  toil, 
Have  gained  the  heights  that  showed  so  brightly  well, 
Our  blind  and  dizzied  vision  sees,  too  late, 
The  forks  of  thickets  running  in  and  out 
Betwixt  their  jagged  bases,  and  glad  springs, 
Wooing  the  silence  with  a  silver  tongue, 
And  then  our  feeble  hands  let  slip  the  staff, 
That  helpt  our  fruitless  journey,  and  our  cheeks 
Shrivel  from  smiles  and  roses ;  so  our  sun 
Goes,  clouded  down,  and  to  the  young  bold  race, 
Close  treading  in  our  footsteps,  we  are  dust. 
•  Thus  ends  the  last  delusion  ;  well — 'tis  well." 

A  moment,  and  as  some  rough  wind  that  sweeps 
The  sunshine  from  the  summer,  o'er  her  face 
Came  the  chill  shadow,  and  her  grief  was  done. 
Maidens,  whose  kindling  blushes  softly  burn 
Through  nut-brown  locks,  or  golden,  garlanded, 
Bright  for  the  bridal,  take  with  gentlest  hands, 
Out  of  your  Eden,  any  simple  flowers, 
And  cover  her  pale  corse  from  cruel  scorn, 
Who,  claiming  in  your  joy  no  sisterhood, 
Took  in  her  arms  the  darkness  which  is  peace; 
And  that  the  bright- winged  ministers  of  God 
Shall,  when  she  wakes  in  beauty  out  of  dust, 
Make  kindly  restoration,  pray  sometimes. 

And  when  that  she  was  dead  and  in  her  grave, 
A  blaming  and  a  mourning  melancholy, 
Sweetly  commending  all  her  buried  grace, 
Darkened  the  pleasant  chambers  of  the  king, 
Till  in  the  ceremony  of  his  prayers, 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA.       397 

Often  he  stopt,  for  "  amen"  crying  out, 

"  Oh,  Tlaara  !   best,  gentlest  Tlaara  !" 

Yet  pain  had  still  vicissitudes  of  peace, 

Until  Remorse,  with  lean  and  famished  lips, 

Hung  sucking  at  his  heart ;  then  came  Despair, 

And,  from  his  greatness  sorrowfully  bowed — 

Like  to  that  feathered  serpent,1  that  of  old 

Went  writhing  down  the  blue  air,  weak  and  bruised 

To  hide  beneath  the  sea  the  emerald  rings 

Erewhile  uncoiled  along  the  level  heavens — 

Went  he  from  splendor  to  the  deeps  of  wo. 

No  white  dove,  rustling  back  the  darkness,  came, 

Raining  out  lovely  music  from  its  wings 

Upon  his  troubled  soul,  as  once  there  came 

To  Colhua's  mountain  children  ;  he  was  changed — 

Not  in  his  princely  presence ;  not  like  him, 

Wxho,  fasting  in  the  mount  of  penitence, 

Fell  in  temptation,  and  was  so  transformed 

To  a  black  scorpion  ;  but  his  youth  of  heart 

Dropt  off,  as  from  the  girdled  sapling  drops 

The  unripe  fruitage  ;  hope  was  done  with  him. 

With  calm,  deliberative  eyes,  he  looked 

Upon  the  kingdoms,  parceled  at  his  will ; 

Over  his  harvests  saw  the  sun  go  down, 

As  though  his  rising  on  the  morrow  brought 

The  issue  of  a  battle  ;  as  one  lost, 

Who,  by  the  tracks  of  beasts  would  find  his  way 

To  human  habitations,  so  he  strayed 

Farther  and  farther  from  the  rest  he  sought. 

1  Quetzalcoatl,  the  god  of  air. 


39S        THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA. 

From  the  sweet  altar  where  the  lamp  of  love 
Burned  through  the  temple's  twilight,  his  sad  steps 
Thenceforward  turned  aside,  and  entered  in 
That  dreadful  fane,  reared  sacredly  to  him 
Of  the  four  arrows  and  blue  twisted  club, 
Whose  waist  is  girdled  with  a  golden  snake, 
While  round  his  neck  a  collar  of  human  hearts 
Hangs  in  dread  token  of  his  murderous  trade. 
The  green-robed  goddess  of  the  fiery  wand 
That  on  the  manta's  fleeces  rides  at  night 
Across  the  sea-waves,  beckoned  him  sometimes, 
And  he  would  fain  have  gone,  but  that  a  hand 
Like  that  which  she  of  Katelolco  held 
Back  from  the  river  of  Death  what  time  she  heard 
The  dead  bones  making  prophecies  of  war, 
Still  held  him  among  mortals;  but  he  saw, 
Lovely  as  life  and  habited  in  snow 
No  youth  upon  whose  forehead  shone  the  cross, 
Such  as  to  that  pale  sleeper  gave  the  power 
To  lift  the  cold  stone  of  her  sepulchre 
And  bear  her  mournful  warning  to  the  world. 
For  his  soul's  peace  he  built  a  rocky  bower 
And  dwelt  in  banishment  perpetual ; 
Wronging  his  marriage-bed,  for  solitude, 
Uncomforting  and  barren.     When  the  morn, 
Planting  carnations  in  the  hilly  east, 
Peeped  smiling  o'er  the  shoulder  of  the  day, 
He  set  his  joined  hands  before  his  eyes, 
Sighing  as  one  who  sees,  or  thinks  he  sees, 
The  likeness  of  a  friend,  untimely  dead. 


THE     MAIDEN     OF     TLASCALA.  309 

Nightly  he  watched  the  great  unstable  sea 

Kneel  on  the  brown  bare  sand  and  lay  his  tace 

In  the  green  lap  of  Earth — his  paramour — 

And  subbing,  kiss  her  to  forgiving  terms, 

Then  straightway,  cruel  and  incontinent, 

Go  from  her — tracking  after  the  white  moon ; 

B I  ;<ic  constrained  its  sweetest  melodies 

To  please  his  lonesome  listening — all  in  vain  ; 

Beauty  grew  hateful,  and  the  voice  of  love, 

Shrill  as  the  sullen  bickering  of  the  storm, 

Close-neighboring  his  rocky  prison-house. 

Under  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  a  tower, 

Bright  with  all  fragrant  woods  and  shining  stones. 

Dwelt  priests,  in  the  dim  incense,  whose  clay  pipes 

And  rosy  jangling  shells,  mixing  with  hymns, 

Told  to  their  melancholy  king  what  times 

To  give  his  homage  to  the  Invisible. 

But  from  the  darkening  wake  of  his  lost  love, 

The  wild  and  desolate  echoes  evermore 

Went  crying  to  the  pitying  arms  of  God  ; 

And  the  crushed  strings  of  his  complaining  lyre 

Under  the  kissing  hands  of  poesy 

Thrilled  never  with  such  sweetness,  as  ere  while, 

Beneath  the  bloomy  boughs  of  Tlascala. 


Bostox,  135  Washington  ST:um*. 
September,  1858- 

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